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Untitled (12/7)

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Dream gasp

 

in a Moonchild’s wasteland.

That amaranthine bay so very far away.

Where the Waves no longer crash upon the coarse Earth for they both understand

that even the faintest of

whispers could solve hatreds big picture.

 

You were there.

In the midst of brush strokes while singing about high hopes.

My lovely keeper, you watched as my bones sank

far beneath the crooked Earth.

 

here I now lay

where the oriole is king

and the heart’s greatest sting

is knowing that the Ancients too

weep for their now lost mortal lovers.