The moon in general abhors a vacuum,
yet somehow it comes and goes
changing names and changing faces,
as leaves curl and fall from branches in Spring;
it fills our lungs and only through breath holds,
how so you may inquire?
Placed tenderly upon unwavering magenta lips,
debris of those that had gone before – fire.
Soft rains at length adore consummation,
through and through in every drop of blood
yet they return not for many months;
it’s hard to explain.
To some, the rain makes only wet,
to others it penetrates the skin and bone–
it offers us gospel truth when the sky opens,
provided we can match up, we can hold our own.
Jaded these lips refute allegations of the world,
so gentle, so moist its impulses.
They put us in places we have never been before;
possessing the most desirable nectar imaginable–
growling and hissing
a storm that develops gradually along the road.
One’s eroticism, another’s bane of existence;
in the end it all depends upon how we decipher its code.
Dust is anything but spiteful,
it takes us from nothingness to glory–
microscopic, it awaits the next breeze to blow it away
but do we even notice?
From dust we made mountains, on dust we have treaded,
it’s just a question of how and when–
I am lost in quiet reflection;
from dust we came and to dust we shall retreat, amen.
Photo credits: Ewa Hauton Fine Art painting, Pinterest
Posted for “Play It Again” @ Real Toads
Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United