A girl once investigated her tousled
subconscious, for starry-eyed symbolism in
dreams was a better navigator of
real life than battery-powered bleakness of
her daily alarm. When little boys pretend to be
sailors they forget to be lost under foreign stars
as well, kneeling on wooden decks and blistered
knees just to plead with the unrelenting new
moon to tranquilize its harshness, just a little bit,
to peal a layer of its sinister skin and
shed some light on the
twisting abyss ahead. Among all the apologies
sowed deeply in my ribcage
there is a haunting song reverberating
in my bones that is
faithless to what my chapped lips preach.
just word ***** while looking at the moon at midnight.