Temporary poetry. Moon stands as a martyr to crime. Yet the night is young and the moon not close enough...

 

Standing underneath your moon I turned to stone.

My senses, burning like yesterday’s ashes flew over the desert,

scaring the vultures of the past away

Crime time is crawling into me.

I plead my soul to take the blame.

 

Two yellow butterflies, waltzing by a cherry tree,

an owl and the boundless quietness stand as witnesses.

Spelling my name in a forgotten dialect,

blinded by the moon’s indifference.

 

I own nothing here, not even my own scream is heard.

All I recall is the deadly scent of my sins,

that spreads into the devouring night

and sentences the violets to death.

 

I beg you, let the moon fall, let it trickle on my face.

Under your moon, is where I seek my redemption.

This wicked moon you claim can drain the oceans

so that I may throw myself at your feet,

 

This wicked moon you conquer, can resurrect the mortal souls

erase all quilts; wreck the solitude from its throne,

but your forgiveness is being denied.

 

Now that I have no dominion to hold,

I call upon the sparrows to bare my soul to you,

The night stands still, strangling the whispering wind she weeps,

as my entrails ignite.

 

This is my heritage, aching lions and black storms,

these red bones carved from your silence.

Transparent kisses, tangled in bloody whirls,

thunders stolen from your body’s sacred arc.

 

Can you forgive my arrogance?

Guilty as charged, for worshipping you over the moon.

My crime is your victory; let my oblivion be your triumph.

Spare me. Cut me in half. Turn off this wicked moon.

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