Feeling like half the man I used to be
I look to the sky desperately
Noticing something I don't usually see
The moon keeping the sun company
But the visual hit a little differently
Like I unknowingly unlocked some mystic mystery
Probably due to the particular mindset I'm in currently
But looking back at me was a half moon in all it's majesty
And I thought about it's cycle, it's personal journey
From full to empty then back again for all of eternity
Then my thoughts drift back to me,
Back to that feeling of illegitimacy
And this new found possibility
Based on the moon cycle imagery
Could it be something I could copy?
I guess I'll have to wait and see
But a sliver of hope, like the sliver of a crescent moon, may be all I need...maybe
Maybe I too could be whole again if I just move forward patiently

©2024

The sun and moon eliminates
The draining darkness life creates
But my past constantly berates
As my future wiggles free and escapes

©2023

The moon, the stars, all seem so far
The lakes, the sea, all call to me
How could it be, how could it be so bizarre
Where is it, where is it I long to be

For I could sail the seven seas
And all would end in misery
I could walk a thousand miles
And never get to see your smile

The birds, the trees, all seem so calming
The air, the wind, all fly around me
How can I, how can I keep from falling
In the abyss that I see

For I could roam the earth
Without a doubt in mind
Knowing that I know what your worth
And so, I could live being blind

The moon, the stars, all seem so far
The lakes, the sea, all call to me
How could it be, how could it be so bizarre
For where, where is it I long to be

And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings,
in the melancholic fate of soliloquy;
yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.”
 
The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies.
Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence.
 
She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew.
In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again.
Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon.
 
She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name.
 
The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing,
a desert of bones starved on
an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky,
she needed to endure
something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow.
 
And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name.
 
Where the river flows, she follows.
In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her;
achingly believing she’s the muse this time.
Who else could have written her the way she is?
 
With her eyes the same as the earthly sand,
her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her,
the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet.
 
With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.”
 
And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her.

That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.