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Literature Text
In the nights I have spent sleepless and
restless, I have developed the habit of
opening my curtains and staring, bleary
eyed, at the moon arching overhead. It
cuts through the dusk with reflected light
and a curved smile, wide eyes blinking
as the month spins past the horizon. In
these strange pre-dawn hours, when the
rest of the world is asleep and unaware,
I stand bare-foot by the radiator and watch
the moon flicker behind wisps of January
mist, twirl in August dresses, wrap up in
November frost. She smiles and she winks
and she watches me with bright ivory teeth,
promising me that however dark the days
seem, that there is always light, reflected or
not. She has craters, scars dented into her
soft curves and she tells me in a quiet voice
that storms can be weathered and tides can
be turned and she has been walked all over,
mapped out and claimed by unknown entities.
She tells me that no-one can own her, no-one
but the earth, but gravity, can tame her or tether
her. And the oceans part at her command and
the stars can never outdo her and this lunar
divide can be bridged with enough time and
enough rocket fuel.
Deep in the bamboo groves of china, where the
axis tilts heavy under the weight of gold palaces
and miles of Ming walls, I still rise like the sun to
watch the moon in its silent arch of flight and I
think of you. We orbit at great distance, existing
in different time zones and different days and I am
like the sun blazing in incense streaked skies,
I am like the ocean roaring with dragon lungs at
jagged cliff faces, I am like the earth, turning and
turning as if trying to retrace my steps for something
missing. But you are always the moon, a shield,
who remains in my night sky with promises and
wishes and when we eclipse, reuniting in between
the days, as the phone connects and we connect and
we talk about lifetimes in a moment, the distance
seems passable. And our skies will merge in six
months time and this eclipse will last for forever and
a day but for now we spin, and at three am I stand
bare-foot by the radiator, watching you watching me,
both smiling with ivory teeth, blinking with wide white
eyes, bathed in the same bright light.
restless, I have developed the habit of
opening my curtains and staring, bleary
eyed, at the moon arching overhead. It
cuts through the dusk with reflected light
and a curved smile, wide eyes blinking
as the month spins past the horizon. In
these strange pre-dawn hours, when the
rest of the world is asleep and unaware,
I stand bare-foot by the radiator and watch
the moon flicker behind wisps of January
mist, twirl in August dresses, wrap up in
November frost. She smiles and she winks
and she watches me with bright ivory teeth,
promising me that however dark the days
seem, that there is always light, reflected or
not. She has craters, scars dented into her
soft curves and she tells me in a quiet voice
that storms can be weathered and tides can
be turned and she has been walked all over,
mapped out and claimed by unknown entities.
She tells me that no-one can own her, no-one
but the earth, but gravity, can tame her or tether
her. And the oceans part at her command and
the stars can never outdo her and this lunar
divide can be bridged with enough time and
enough rocket fuel.
Deep in the bamboo groves of china, where the
axis tilts heavy under the weight of gold palaces
and miles of Ming walls, I still rise like the sun to
watch the moon in its silent arch of flight and I
think of you. We orbit at great distance, existing
in different time zones and different days and I am
like the sun blazing in incense streaked skies,
I am like the ocean roaring with dragon lungs at
jagged cliff faces, I am like the earth, turning and
turning as if trying to retrace my steps for something
missing. But you are always the moon, a shield,
who remains in my night sky with promises and
wishes and when we eclipse, reuniting in between
the days, as the phone connects and we connect and
we talk about lifetimes in a moment, the distance
seems passable. And our skies will merge in six
months time and this eclipse will last for forever and
a day but for now we spin, and at three am I stand
bare-foot by the radiator, watching you watching me,
both smiling with ivory teeth, blinking with wide white
eyes, bathed in the same bright light.
Literature
oceans from tidepools
dreamer; you might feel
lost at sea but guidance
has always been within
you; you will find shore
soon enough.
you can look to the stars
all night but they may
never hold the answers,
you can pray to your gods
and to your earth but
they might never write back
because, dreamer, you are
your own force of nature
you are the captain, and
you have never been lost.
Literature
Lunar Imprints and the Moon's Tears
"the sky's too small
and my hands are too big
to go into the depths
of the night
without the regret
of leaving." said he.
tonight,
the stars inside the
galaxy's lungs
have died
and the moon's sorrow
fills him with
every reason to
miss the sun's
warmth,
his arms embracing
her lucid body,
the outline of her shape
traced by a kiss
that
never
r e a c h e d
her...
the sky will soon
fill with the seas
of the moon's tears--
we will all yearn for
that kind of love,
skies too small
and hands too big
to go into the depths
of the night
to grow unrequited.
Literature
cicatrix
i trace the raised highways on his back
with seven ballpoint pens,
one for each pigment in a rainbow,
and tell him in depth how beautiful
he is.
his glance is paired with twisted lips
and white-knuckled hands clutching
his shirt-
how can i believe that when all you do
is find a way to color in
every goddamn imperfection?
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14/3/15 Written for my mum for Mother's Day. She is the moon there to catch me from drifting off into deep space, the light by which I dream.
© 2015 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments7
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This is as beautiful as the moon~ 