I've been thinking
About the moon
Her sweet scent
Of jasmine and rose
She glances
Upon the night blossoms
And smiles
Her beaming light
It dances
Upon my skin
And her reflection
Is just as beautiful
As her star-children
Sleep

Front and center of it all
I am a big burning,
bright gas ball.

Planets spin around my girth,
Like Saturn, Mars,
Venus and Earth.

I am the one that rises
you in the morning
and leaves you stunned
by my leave.
I am the one
who blazes and scorches
and at times
hides behind the clouds.

Even though
I am 149.6 million km away
I am still there to
light your world
and keep you warm.

Summer is coming,
the sun will glare,
heat will radiate,
flip flops will be out,
tans will be tattooed on bare skin,
sunglasses out to shade,
sp lotions to shield,
happiness beaming through the curved-wide smiles,
water will be splashed
and the sand will burn
like hot coals on the soles of the feet
for it will be  beach season once again.

If I should end
then,
well, I guess that's
that.

Self preservation
makes enough sense,
until I rise
from ancient fears.

A smile
can't crack
to
predators
on the
attack.

A smile
in heart,
in
spirit, soul,
against
the world.

The cruel will turn to worms.
I might scream, nail under nail,
but I'll not have failed myself.

The cruel will turn to worm
food,
And they may get to you,
but,
so what?

The cruel will turn to worm
food,
And they may come for you,
but,
so what?

My time is mine,
and I, don't have time
to fight systems
of imaginary lines.

(I paint them)

I'm surely turning, slowly,
into worm food, too.
I don't want to waste my time
with you, fighting.

If I should end
then,
well, I guess that's
that.

Dip me into the flat line,
under the frame,
where the sun sinks,

The longest day of my life suddenly
ends with a twist, turns
out, your venom

burned negative space
in the lid and
let out the damage

you did.

Let me take your eyes, I'll
give you my teeth.
Who wants brown rot? You.
Wheat speckled emerald
rings encircle
obsidian space.
Just one of the things
                  I love about your face.

Out of the box, out of the realm,
she is heart to my sword and my helm.
Bowl of the bread, bowl on her head,
she permits me the grand privilege:

learning her will, learning her pain,
learning her joy and her disdain,
lines into dimples, lines into jowls,
lines of a smile and lines of a scowl.

Alive.
What's
the point
in knives?
A tool.
What's
the deal
with deals?

If I
never
get caught in
one more
crossfire
conversation
about
only
the mundanities
I would
lose my
edge, but wouldn't it be nice?

If I
never
get trapped in
gossip
circles
again, though,
I
would be
happy.