When the bones plead to settle
under the blue moon,
I watch the waves shudder and censor their
song,
I think my time here has
been
wrapped and neatly tied in a bow,
and I have no one to give myself to.
When the hot cauldron spills
over onto my chest,
where flowers no longer
bloom,
the blue moon laughs its loudest.
the oar guiding my way
has
been swallowed by the teeth of
uncertainty,
I look, I peer into the mire of insanity
chasing the one trustworthy rhythm,
among the many mercenary wales,
that will keep me moving,
moving not just forward like the
beleaguered soldier,
fighting some distant war waged
by the
infidelity of impulse.
yet here i go,
yelling curses at the pursuing blue moon,
bones in motion,
bones sinking sooner,
dust at my lips,
and
destruction
of my
apical temple assured;
I light my cigarette,
inhale disdain for these four walls and
this ritual madness,
and
for all I know,
the moon was never blue
and I made this moment
harder than
it
had to
be.