Watery-white, the moon casts its glow onto the city, the sycamore maple silhouetted, in the distance, against the obsidian sky. Have you ever wondered how the moon could be bringing heightened emotions to surface? Like the sudden blooming of colour that sears through one’s cheeks, the tide with its waves rolling in and out, its rhythm as steady as our own— have you noticed how similar the magnetic effect?
I am lonesome, the light from my iPhone much like absent rain not beating down; slender fingers scrolling through and replying to misunderstood syllables. Honestly speaking, I find that the moon senses a tinge of sweetness behind my eyes and in turn lends to fiery spirit. I am hardly one to pout while seated upon plush furniture; it’s too much work in my opinion. I’d rather smile my way through the floodwaters of relating myself to the world.
Sanguine moon observes, the rush of blood during a full phase— heron calls.
Berries come to autumnal air; unaware of blemishes borne by the world, are we not responsible for what goes on? Kudos to those who have failed, failed as leaders, as citizens of the community, as human— just as it’s unsafe to eat unripe berries it’s questionable to tread on path, for this is what happens when social injustice hits fever pitch, do we dare say what we mean? I look outside the window and see smoke instead of clouds; men breaking windshields, groups setting fire piece by piece, gun violence and yet witness not change, what is this all about? To each their grief, we learn not from the past we stand divided, trellis with vines so fickle they breathe nor sigh— a penny for your thoughts, would you prefer to live on where fruit poisons the eater? Damages the mind and robs of sight? Dare we raise our voice against discrimination, demand what’s right and leave issues unhanging; my heart weeps when I hear of rape, of inhumane acts that defy the grounds of humanity— do we dare raise the volume of television? A shadow isn’t our face nor dust our ear, with fire
raging in our hearts we ingest; it’s time that we protest!
Red, these unslumbering clouds know not difference; they indulge in the fragrance, in the very winds that whisper in alluring accents, I can barely express– the oddity of roses, they pout and pose in the innermost workings of my mind where you reside, are you ready for the change of seasons? Such poetry in the contour of your cheeks, in the duskiest glow of autumnal leaves swirling; I could memorize every inch of you and still yearn to know more, it’s as though your initials are engraved on soft and supple skin. I sense you in the waxing crescent of the moon, feel you belong in the direction of my words; tell me, is there anything sweeter? The roses surrounded by solitude and song speak of you as much as I do, sometimes we just know without knowing why and how.
This black mood, this malaise that coats sweetness of cherry, flowering— nutant, the brightness of morning
forgotten. When did it become so insignificant? We are only taught what’s worth our investment; what of altruism? And now, the sky is my backyard; it lends perspective.
Misgivings. Isn’t that what the moon is antonym of? Refined, its sugars are absorbed into the bloodstream almost immediately; draping what little is left of breath, of light that longs to become one with being— I am cobalt etched, a glorious panoply of sensual scrawling(s) ranging to mauve-blue, from buttercup yellow to rose. Bend me over to the edge of the moon and watch as body arches toward its direction, its ways— the virtuous, the chaste, the naïve, the unsullied aren’t afraid of what sends shivers down the spine; a leaf in a hurricane, we are equipped to run miles in a universe of pleasure and pain. Nobody notices it at first; pristine, its crevice large lures and later covers with memory. I dare not cross the bridge knowing “never,” is a garland waiting on the other side— like an addicted smoker who inhales poetry, I can’t get enough of his verse; the moon, dressed in red velvet, in turn exchanges a smile.
Slipping subtly through to lift the blackness is want; its brazen light shimmers across dark waters, just outside, and streams in through the space between my curtains. “Sometimes, all that a heart needs is a push.”
In their dreams they sleep with the moon; freed of gravity, flail up to dimensions of realms unknown. Herons, unlike us, fret not over gulls not accepting them. I am a soft, silent September night sewn by the sense of you. I tell myself misgiving is first and foremost an
external force, stating that one isn’t capable of handling situations; are we seriously going to allow it to stand in our way?
I hold a perfect salt-bleached shell to my ear, listen to the voices reaching out from all sides. Sweet, succulent, savory, the sting
that rises within erases all remains. I prefer stewing in dreams wide