March 2020
A serene morning.
I rouse to no ding.
Am I daydreaming?
I languorously lock my eyes on a clock.
It is getting on for 10 o'clock.
A muffled bang on the door.
I am not alone at home?
My wispy feet stomp on the floor,
Eyes engrossed in the spyhole.
A girl in a white top.
Grotesque features I evoke.
Her bright red lips mutter on
'2024,...'
'Calls you to the main floor.'
Categories:
spyhole, graduation, grief, growing up,
Form: I do not know?
O Moon God
Prisms of White
Sell me your dreams.
Those crystal visions
From high above that
nourish this void existence.
O Moon God
I want to see
through your spyhole
To feel what you feel
To catch you
Is like to burn.
I am your prisoner
Your prince and princess
your price is my shadow.
Hunt me.
O Moon God
The stars, your
Former skin powdered
Tremble blindly.
I want to redream myself
to mould myself
In your ashen image.
Your afterglow masks
my dreams entirely.
O Moon God
You lighten the life
We could have had
Haunted shades
Child silhouettes
All erased in day.
The comfort of darkness.
My opal pearl
My Samson
My God.
He’s as cold as you
A beacon of tragedy
Bone rays of regret.
O Moon God
Sell me your dreams
For I have none.
Categories:
spyhole, dream,
Form: Prose Poetry