did i ever consider that the moon shines so gloriously because it lacks atmosphere? the sun hits rock and comes to us without trope. dead and magnificent. it reflects pure in the sky, a white sphere of fragile, filterless, lifeless splendor. sometimes the moon glares, sometimes it seethes. i refrain from denoting gender. it is an object. tonight the moon peers. through haze and fuzz, as if shining through noise.
radio waves of early morning talk shows perpetuating across skylines. moonshine pierces, but is distilled, by talk of foreign apocalypse, local politics. it pertains to an ambiance and an audience. of the several thousand listening and watching, absorbing the human feedback loop, how many tonight are peering back across the seconds? at something dead and beyond. i will not call it Persephone, for the moon is an object.
now the moon is simply shining. in a simply beautiful way.
that makes me feel simply lonely.

isolate. a language born from itself with no family, devoid of future, and now of past. buried under ignorance. Tuvalu under waves. is this not loss. and eternity. a figure of eight brands through me, leaving the cookie-cutter imprint. but no, i am a happy statistic. i do not wish to cross the other heaven. this is hell enough. but time will creep upon me and yield me to myself, feelings i cannot conceive. am i wasting?
i think so.

what now.

write for 60 years.

and die happy?

spell the language of my being with the words of my marrow?

i would skim the moon across oceans and watch it sink, or rise.

layers of ancient dust collecting water.

the waves crushing colours from confusion.

silent catastrophe.

i saw myself blink.

the moon in my mirror.

i am from earth, your father. let me tell you he loves you.

a moon for a muse, reserved for the sleepless and scarred.

but i will not attribute character.


before it's even over i regret it. before it had begun i've resolved to it. i feel like singing.