The lunar glow that keeps my eyes afloat
Emboldens me. So, I waste my dying breath
On a smoke screen. A mortal disguise.
It runs my options dry. Drops figs
In foreign lands. Turned to ash now,
Jams an axe in my best laid plans.
In denial, brought out the preface to spring.
Diluting the amethysts wicked spirit,
Lucid spirits. Unromantic.
Unlike my days of fanciful feelings,
The lightness of April’s bright air
With Ferdinand’s kiss. The days of puritan bliss.
That like Odette will not prolong
Peacock feathers and pageantry.
Smudged ink, remembrance of lost time.
Quick turns to broken tethers and tragedy,
Made me the mother of every rhyme.
The victim of nature’s sour song.
The wind’s whistle, composed of harshness.
Composed of ripples, with hearts that sting.
When can life be still, still, still.
A siren’s call, the ticking stalled.
Is it the sea you hear in me?
The monsters call that’s set you free.
That curse the cold dark January nights
With Cerberus’s breath blowing at you.
Bare trees with nothing to stare down onto.
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