the pond is fickle and deep.
Wings graze and kiss
the bouncing drops
of silver.
Our Moon cries in a melancholic
way, and bares its quivering
lip with pride.
I wade in the intertwining vines
and the mispronounced
songs.
Death burns,
and I will peel away my skin.
strip by strip,
to the rhythm of the buzzing pond,
and beating horizon.
Swallow the slimy sun--
cheerful and running.
Death is a growing pain.