sliding down paper tongues,
nestled amongst forgotten tomes
of history remembered
in dusty attics.
Sharp tongue slays the beast
of a procrastination hour
left lingering beneath the quicksilver moon,
waiting for the crystal cleanse,
the heart hastens to grasp
the birth of an image.
Who we become when no one sees
the hands moving through the story’s rise and fall,
splayed like paint across barren walls,
we write our future in the clouds
that descends over the light
of luna’s delicious irony,
here and gone,
the void deep and wide.
Hasten the mind to bring forth,
in reason and madness the spirit toys
with the lopsided circumstance the creation rising,
becoming one of itself-
a silly song sings of a child’s logic,
and nimble fingers draw the way
down the page of a new story born.