The moon obscured by twilight fog
is like a sentinel,
guarding the acrid smell
of the veneer of doing well,
when really, deep down
I feel like hell.
The deepest corners of my heart conceal
a darkness
and a confusion
more real than real.
I feel like I myself want to steal
my whole life's foundation
and take it far away from me.
Like the moon obscured by the fog
I want to be free in the rain
to run again
to feel the same
as when I played that game
of life
and of love
but the moon's obscured by a fog
from above.
If only I could see that light
reflected through the cloud.
I yearn to feel how bright
that moon tonight
calls silently,
but is yet so loud.
The weights and forces balanced on my mind
are like a shard of possible time,
slicing like the punchiest rhyme,
and frequently taking my breath away
like a thing sublime.
It seems I cannot help but stop
to pause,
to think.
Whenever there's a drip of beauty,
I drink,
even in the slog of cloudy days
I'm right on the brink.
It's the kind of thing that you may communicate
with a wink,
but that would never be enough.
Not even the poet's last lines
drafted with enchanted ink
could capture this feeling.
I stare up at the moon,
her bright eyes obscured
by a fog.
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 11:57 PM UTC
The moon obscured by twilight fog
is like a sentinel,
guarding the acrid smell
of the veneer of doing well,
when really, deep down
I feel like hell.
The deepest corners of my heart conceal
a darkness
and a confusion
more real than real.
I feel like I myself want to steal
my whole life's foundation
and take it far away from me.
Like the moon obscured by the fog
I want to be free in the rain
to run again
to feel the same
as when I played that game
of life
and of love
but the moon's obscured by a fog
from above.
If only I could see that light
reflected through the cloud.
I yearn to feel how bright
that moon tonight
calls silently,
but is yet so loud.
The weights and forces balanced on my mind
are like a shard of possible time,
slicing like the punchiest rhyme,
and frequently taking my breath away
like a thing sublime.
It seems I cannot help but stop
to pause,
to think.
Whenever there's a drip of beauty,
I drink,
even in the slog of cloudy days
I'm right on the brink.
It's the kind of thing that you may communicate
with a wink,
but that would never be enough.
Not even the poet's last lines
drafted with enchanted ink
could capture this feeling.
I stare up at the moon,
her bright eyes obscured
by a fog.