Moon sighs into infinity,
she moans
at the thought of morning kisses from the Sun
fleeting passions
always spinning into eternity

Moon dreams
of delicate snow angels
in a dance of wings around her
she is frozen stardust carved by a sightless deity
she is ice
glistening when the Sun touches her
melting
when the Sun touches her
melting
at his touch

Moon closes her eyes, whispers
touch me
Sun opens his eyes, smiles

they are one
dawn
symphony

How carefully she is shuttering her heart,
with pastel paper eyelids tightly drawn
against the Sun and his every brilliant son.
But, like a woman behind a white silk screen,
the glow of life reveals her fragrant form
as she slowly does her lonely pirouettes.
So lovely and so alone.
So very lovely.
So very alone.

Bravely, she begins to hum a song
heard once in Bacchanalian reveries.
Her voice, as pure as snowflakes, flutters down
into the open mouths of forgotten dreams.
Sated,they sigh behind her milky *******,
where abstracted fingertips draw complex maps.
So beautiful and so sad.
So very beautiful.
So very sad.

On Mount Olympus, marble eyes and hearts
turn towards the sorrow pouring from her lips,
disguised as sweet remembrances of love.
The marble hearts all crack with tenderness
and tip their rhytons filled with halcyon
to bathe her in sweet Lethean repose.
So silent and so still.
So very silent.
So very still.

The moon self-eclipses,
hiding her battered old face
in stygian lunacy.
Below,
we bounce light in different directions
like prisms
hanging in the window of a curiosity shop.

In strobing shadows, we grin
lasciviously-
dangling, drooling shrunken heads
on red strings of fate.

It hardly matters.
From a distance our oddities are almost...
endearing.

You are welcome in my bubble,
room for two.

Remembered music
tears the atmosphere apart,
spiralling through octave dimensions
to where we float
in ancient and decaying blood
with the other apocalyptic flotsam.

Infinity pursues,
an unrelenting source of fear,
opaque immeasurable dimensions
swirl around our undead memories,
straining toward conciousness
with weighted wings.
Nightmare seen by lidless eyes,
given mortal substance
in endless screams.

"Why? Why"? we scream
from the crumbling wall,
from grated windows,
black-toothed mouths in rows.
We offer our souls
to the hope assasin
who only knows the converging point
of twisting sequences
but not who set their adverse course,
Nor how,
nor why
some small experiences
take root and grow
with terrifying force.

What a cruel master he is,
urging momentum
through this dead air.
Our blood flows thick
into stopped hearts
too dark to see
what was once glimpsed
in tearless infant eyes.

And why do all the empty cradles
rock so violently
in dark deserted attic rooms
where photographs creep out
from dusty tomes-
mute and faceless ghosts
who bid our dreams farewell?