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.