I’ll respect the moon yet never bow to it.
I am blinded by the night yet I see every star.
I hate the cold, but in love—my sight of my breath upon the air.
I am indeed frightened by the blackness and dark,
yet I am drawn to the wolves that rule it.
This cranking of ghost song captivates:
Slick and shiveringly smooth
then weaves to Machiavellian things.
All left there, runs dogged onto the moor,
past on, so tirelessly into the midsummer sea;
Pieces writhe unending.
The heat of high sun blares ugly, sickly thick.
I am stuck in my leather chair, all numb and lonely.
My wee brain bits and souls,
rushing out in some lapse of mental light,
go far beyond the shore.
In a blink, I loose them to evil feelings.
Across these stone white walls.
Tooth wobbles, sticks within,
I can not break what will not break alone.
Without me, my hand be stricken,
to wroth inside this light bulb of uncertainty which continues
scratching out some scenic land—
to page to page to page to page to page to
Countless lark white.
Drive hammer down with the might of pen
to the lobe bone of mine own head.
Said once some wraith, go forth like river. So,
shiver drooling into the midnight I shall lay here,
like the dead.
I scant know my own number, my own name.