The other half of our Moon

My iambs always seem to feed on sorrow and memories past, but are meant well.

"These fleshy fruits about my beak,
have twisted, turned around in time,
to petal, sepal, arid spine,
and lastly listless, lifeless seed.

Within - no flesh, I fear, cut out
by blunt, by slavic, stumpy hand.
My florid tongue was but your land,
depleted, languished in my snout.

Two orbits bare, two shrivelled stars,
inside slain seas surge charcoaled isles:
Is quit the quiver of my eyes,
and Amor's arrow's but a scar.

Despite, each eve, waves plan their flight
from these their coves, to stony shores,
to lap the wounds and salt the sores.
Could keep them captive not tonight.

They tumble to Electra's tear
enwrapped in chain, swaggers a rent.
A "whoosh", Psyche erupts the dent,
her argent cord - impaling spear.

Bronze heart, subsister, knew not rust
until past pores your pasty dew
infested it, its warmth withdrew.
You taught it love can come with lust."