Wednesday, November 5, 2014

The Moon is an empty blue sky

eyes reddened,
piano keys,
limp fingers,
followed by
the moon,
it won't go.

Wave to the souls
on opposite shore,
sinking yachts
sift though the
quicksand plots,

they can wait 50
years for the right
foot, marking the
right time and

a few deep breathes
to our animal spirit
and no more suffering,

no, no, nothing,
that is where the
sense is, no, yes,
I mean, nothing
you see?

I couldn't even reach out
before your hand slipped

I sat there and watched you go,

took time off to write about it.

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