The moon’s a prognosis of what’s to come;
and rising on the sprawling green of my cornfield heart,
why is it that the world insists upon dissecting what cannot be dissected?
I barely recognize the faces which once seemed familiar and warm,
how perception of the world changes when circumstances go awry—
I prefer not to transgress, to go about and tackle situations as softly
as shoes of a ballet dancer instead;
adorning and rejuvenating the only stage that matters.
The moon, in omens of tempest and calm doesn’t actually alter its shape;
not even when waning,
which comes only after we have spent a considerable amount of time
I am firelight, my consciousness immune to toxicity, to blackness
that surrounds and torments; I smile knowing it too is a form of rebellion.
Photo credits: Henrik Aa. Uldalen painting, Pinterest
A Skylover Wordlist: Uncanny, firelight, transgress, awry,
rebel, somnolent, prognosis, vagrant 💝
Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United