Moonstone

Dear manipulative muse, I have watched you calligraph your craftsmanship into oblivion. I must say, your concoction is a wild enterprise, Dreaming in the darkness, you have sketched me an aura of rose From an oasis that sings a broken lullaby, Playing chemistry with macabre metaphors. Such a shame… Did the bittersweet sun in your sky teach you only black and white? Must a woman almost always be the mosaic mind? Spare me the brain-blistering sad songs on the 1900 radio. Now witness! Observe! See what it means to be the dawn of pain in familiar torment, Time stolen and a heart far beyond broken, Dust lost beneath the hidden October embers. Why wait for a volatile vortex? When your indigo moonstone stirs up like a furious faucet, Impatiently waiting to explode into the aftermath of a war? Are you done keeping score? Or does your pride need to see how I can walk out that door? You are barely a quest, You pathetic flamingo! So get your head out of my backyard And bury it in a forgotten graveyard.