Quicksilver moon

Words slip…
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.

Drifted dream

We swallowed the moon
in dreams of sickness,
feeling the movement
as it slipped down lower
into the starving pit of emptiness
growing cold in the blue.
Sweat runs like rain on summer days
as the sun brands bodies
with the tattoo of red,
seeking relief we drifted to the edge
and held on tight
to stay above the fray.
Amongst the stars
scattered like sugar drops on black,
sprinkled to and for by the careless hand,
like unexpected words found
cold and sharp, ever bright
as it finds its mark in the darkness,
slipping away unsure,
we all fall down.