Thursday, September 08, 2005


the trepidation of this waning moon boils up the streetlights,
and from the wormwood the bitterness is spit back out,
bring in the holiest statuettes, the bronze that shines,
add the glitter and ritz, and find the street thieves,
but before all, make sure the sun stays put, set.

Bid the fool to come, and pay him well for the stories,
allot the puppeteers a bit more stage time for their woes,
the sun, herself, may not come back, and much needs to be done yet,
preparations, rations and the aching dreadfulness of death.

Forgive not the weeping maidens, the strong armed fools,
they are binded to their faith, seeing only the everlasting angels,
the winged ones who flutter between the keen stars,
waiting for the moment to strike when the streetlamps go.

The palatable anxiety is rising, suffocating the very lives sought out,
finding a comfort in the thick blanket of air.
Everything is killing us, and the jealousy is a nonsensical moment of rage,
right before the embrace of the Earth,
kiss everyone you know, and the hedonism that was once forbidden -
explodes into the pleasurable reality that you will remember,
rather than hurriedly aching to lose thought.

Open the moon, and dwell on the deep craters,
the bright light will blind, and lead to awareness,
wait for your personal epiphany and nirvana to rattle your body and soul,
then completeness will be known.


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