Brood

At last, a clan to call my own
a root to spur the seedling sown
when offspring of the average dust
surrendered to their primal lust
before the temple, cold as stone
could crumble, as it surely must.

Yon titan with a voice of silk
has helped identify my ilk,
Moneta emphasized the line
whose balm, at times, can be divine
while opposites serve curdled milk
more bitter than fermented whine.

This fever can become quite rash
and left unchecked, abruptly brash
to aggravate the thinnest skin
with shameless shares of sheer chagrin
that issue from a massive stash
unequal to the total sin.

Despite the tribal urge to dance
to celebrate my circumstance,
beneath this aerie I will lie
a mote beside a mountain high
entranced until I catch a glance
of blazing raiment streaking by.


***This may help decipher the above***