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Literature Text
The moon and her omnipotent force,
dictates our darkness with every phase.
She possess a glow that turns
raindrops into glitter
bodies into shadows
day into night
She is humble despite having the seas at her mercy
Shy and loyal, reserving her crescent smiles to her earthly lovers
In her waking hours, she mothers every star in our sky,
keeping each constellation is at its place.
I, of all people, would know how graceful of a blessing she is.
So if the moon, who thrives in the darkness, ceases to be
the earth and its collective sadness can never compare
to the fated loneliness of the sun
who dies at every dusk
just to let his lover's lunar scars shine.
dictates our darkness with every phase.
She possess a glow that turns
raindrops into glitter
bodies into shadows
day into night
She is humble despite having the seas at her mercy
Shy and loyal, reserving her crescent smiles to her earthly lovers
In her waking hours, she mothers every star in our sky,
keeping each constellation is at its place.
I, of all people, would know how graceful of a blessing she is.
So if the moon, who thrives in the darkness, ceases to be
the earth and its collective sadness can never compare
to the fated loneliness of the sun
who dies at every dusk
just to let his lover's lunar scars shine.
Literature
solst.ice
ice, you said, always seems to be
found frosted in the strangest of
words, take justice, solstice, even
officer;
and i thought of the hottest sun
burning somewhere far away with
a glacial core thumping below all
that heat as the day bled on across
the night.
we kissed by the water and spoke
in fragments, mosaics of mutual
understanding, or at least that was
my impression;
you held pools of night in the cups
of your palms and i pressed my neck
against the rinds of what was left
as we melted in the haze of a solstice
passing us by.
husks of love, half-shells of charcoaled
oysters, i saw the pearls there under the
water, and the su
Literature
Moon
Moon
You left the knife on the drainboard,
bits of lettuce scattered like green rice.
We should get married, you tell me,
this house tight as a ring around us.
In every room, sleep waits for me.
Sometimes I wake sprawled on the wooden floor
not remembering that I fell.
Things blur, the copper pans
hanging on the wall swell in tight glowing bellies
woven rugs flow like rivers.
At night, your face flowers into an open moon,
filling our bed with light
There is no place left to hide.
Literature
moon.tether
impetuous dreams of
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.
I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.
I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
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phantomSIX asked me what my reaction would be if the moon didn't rise again.
I know I said I'd polish this but I really need to get something out there.
I know I said I'd polish this but I really need to get something out there.
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oh my, this is breathtakingly enchanting. i especially adore the phrases "dictating our darkness" and "to let his lover's lunar scars shine." just brilliant, dear.