There is a man, not him, to you I am. <br />Juggling broken falls, <br />I am the owner of her long white staff. <br />God has a broken crown, <br />and trees are flowing all around her thinking not of him. <br />Hers an eye on balanced tables, laughing face. <br />Red hot weeping from the staff. <br />Cold pouring water on the sand. <br />A white hot sun, <br />three hungry women standing there beneeth it. <br />Empty but without you on it. <br />Black wet speckled rocks brown, <br />and dried with blood. <br />Hand bones are scattered all around it.<br /><br />Is It Poetry<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/god-of-many-crowns/
