Tonight,
the golden moon drips full.
Shadows sing my form.

A dried petal swings in the silhouette
splitting the variegated shadows
I bask between.

The walls have ceased biting my ears
and old ghosts no longer whisper lonely gibberish.
Still,
a hammer in my heart begs admission.

I cannot ignore the clawing of my mind,
there still much to gut and cultivate.

One must offer libation to the moon,
pregnant with primal enumerations,
drain a small river of mortality.

Yet
as my bark has aged
my familiar melancholia
bloomed awareness
observing my lack
and wished to become reborn.

My fingers freeze
holding in hurricanes,
I see them glow with fullness
in the crescendo of moonlight.

Perhaps,
I will begin with the simple lack
the frustration with what was
and what became itself once again.

The petal falls from its frame
As I return to the solitude of reflective nights
Such as these.

Trusting
I will bloom
underneath shadows
into holy curiosity
again and again.