Where should we go for what we leave behind
don't reach us like spears?
We, toys with moldable meat
at the time of the full moon
feeling the whip of the wind
and the icy glare of moonlight
in the dark angle of these corners
astonished at how the simple branch of pine
cries a drop of dew on the blades of grass
We see how much they crave the first sun
he dares, infamous
he is insidious and powerful
as he gilds the edge of the light
he possesses the savagery of potent heat
Who insect would not extend their limbs
seeking the redemption from this burning hope?
There are four monthly moons
if you want to fish
There are four daily tides
if you don't want to drown.
Copyright © Marco Chies | Year Posted 2022
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