Monday, April 16, 2007

Even So Sad Gets My Moon Lady Breathing

You get yourself inside me and I'll show you what it takes to be. In this our final stand, hunkered copse of trees with washing-clean the mind bombs going all around, I want to tell you that I love and that now I owe you none. Didn't fantasies blow down from felling clouds of mist? Didn't second breaths reign for several seconds more? In this maelstrom, who will gather up my fingers and wait for boats that spring from far blown port? Sleeping on straw, faces drown in morning, stick in walls and mirrors, show the bottom of a world. Twilight checks our moorings. There come ways to get collected. Deep in night and time nerves let go when flow subsides. Deliberate the middle of the rite. Interrupt our inching selves to rant or wash the ceiling. It's exciting to be dead the way I am. More still to know that death is something more. Hungry ghosts write. Horizon and rubble. Brother wrecked if never my faith is clean. My moon lady can't come over for the mind bombs weary when I ache.

No comments: