It is tomorrow as I stray solitary
and walk myself awake, standing
on the grass that grows the greenest
on this here higher side
where the moon sleeps on the shadows
above your mud-cloaked body.

This silver orb, so tempestuous,
upon it still can always be relied
whilst here feet find, to be at its fullest elevation,
grass glowing silver and stones a sibilant, sacrificial grey;
as the gravity of that oval brightness
diminishes all other light.

My bare feet ***** down the flora
that grows hopeful from your skin
and up I turn, looking for comfort
in a bare and barren sky
where even the brightest stars,
those thousand sharpened shards
of brittle glass glimmering,
fade too into blackness

as here, cloaked in this shining dark,
I am reminded
that the full fury of the sun rests so still now,
held blind beneath my weary feet.