Late Moon


The moon awakens in a fountain of gold, she is lost and helplessly alone.

I watch the stars comfort her body, they shake her lifeless soul.

I count the unwanted cracks on my lips

They are deep, dark like crimson rivers

And they flow so delicately as if water was God.

Sometimes meditation calms the twilight sky,

It is a cloud of blankness, utter stillness that shuts our eyes.

Leaves drop deap like rain. It is the moon’s calling. She awaits under my bed

And sings melodies from silent lands.

I am a song, she is a song

We are all children of Beethoven and we inhale instruments like air.

I recall her beauty, the moon is like a sea and she exhales specks of perfection.

She may be a photograph hanging on the wall

She may be a flower roaming the San Francisco streets.

I don’t mind her essence, her presence enlightens me.

Sky-circle my chamber or plant a seed in the grave,

She is late.

The moon is always late.

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