there are times when the world insists on making meaning don’t turn this into an abstraction my hand down here between your legs covered with moss (I can almost feel your milky roots) watch my fingers as I touch you there is electricity can you see it watch me get on my knees this is the sky flowing out of your hips can you see it this is what gives (milk) to all of my hungers don’t stop let me make you flesh into blossom let me take you down into me like the rain
Like standing on the peak of a mountain range during a lightning storm with my eyes closed, I am sending myself as a beacon out to you. With blueberry tinted fingers you touch my face, soft as the sunset mist, and leave bruise colored echoes across my skin, I am running, skipping my body across the darkening soil like a stone, spinning my way past the orange fungi adorned trees after you, Can’t you feel the swirling hurricane of desire in my chest when we press close, the way my body settles like cooling lava around you when we intertwine, I cannot help but to be shaped by you.
All around us the auroras waltz and curtsy, the moss cloaked rocks pulsate with earth's breath, the lightning strikes. I open my eyes, and you are gone.
Sun catches on mossy greens claiming the side of an impervious frame.
A blunt stroke in a world of extremes blurring symmetry with a deliberate slant.
Indifferent to approachable stalwart to still.
A paint-laden brush turning unwavering guards into the most trusted of confidantes.
I’m drawn to nurse the errant side with a gentle hand to coax a testimony of truth.
A humbled servant once a king. A dying giant to a ***** friend.
Once a professor of celestial beings now a hopeful star gazer.
The weathered skin worn by a fallen age now at the pleasure of a wanderer’s intrigue.
Standing assured the immovable holds his post to bespeak a worthy tale.
I am hard-put to deny him.
They who reached for heaven never would achieve it. Yet in civilian garb vulnerability laid bare, exposed.
Sentinels become saints, and I cannot ignore their courage.
Moss is a clue to the environment around a tree. It signals excessive moisture and that the air around the tree is unpolluted—pure. Meanwhile too much moss can cause a tree to become unbalanced “weak” during a wind storm. Just the right amount of moss adds beauty without destruction, a delicate look of vulnerability.