Saturn sits heavy in his seventh house.
No love on the cusps
held fast with honey
squeezed from his heart, bled dry
by Venus in the star-filled sky.
Mars runs backwards with its shoes untied
tripping his soul, love in reverse
or worse, love parked. Progress is a bull
too stubborn to move. The ram pushes on,
but gravity is gone.
The sun succumbs to the lunar shade
Into darkness he is plunged, blind
as love. Having lunch in the dark
is Venus, drinking our blood
sweetened by the ache of the lovelorn's flood.
By tuesdaypillow used with the permission of the poet.
All rights reserved
poetry, writing, literature, love, astrology
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