Sorrow’s Gravity

About The Moon & Flowers
0629.2013

Only a little was understood
as the moon wandered off course,
lifted into air, hung by the minutes—
she brandishes fields and buildings,
turning them into night's argentum.

So pale in the pitch,
one can see veins beneath her skin.

She is day's destruction—
an end to all brightness;
night’s expansive unfolding,
waning inside me
like the final curtain
on my will’s last stand.

And I've gone missing within these hours,
wandering somewhat worthless,
until finding myself on a silver road
so long and twisted it has no end.
It doesn’t offer left or right,
only pulls me downward.

It says I’m colorless.

It asks:
Whose hands are fruitless?
Meaning: I'm unspoken defeat,
a life trembling askew,
a dread too easily maintained—

it states it plainly.

After this and lingering years,
my face is dry desert ravines,
the quiet stars in my eyes
are little wishes flashing their deaths.

I’m dazzlingly brain-dead.

Tomorrow, I’ll rise challenged,
repeat today’s motions—
maybe even hope, because.

Yet tonight, the flowers bring fear,
all because they appear different—
because I've thought too much.

They bloom into beauty
and almost immediately fade—

Woe, they haven’t got a chance.

In irrationality,
I think:
the moon’s death-light
is slipping through my window,
entering my soul—
that people are murderers,
who think nothing
of altering natural things,
even less to thank them
for never complaining.

No wonder the moon has died.
No wonder the flowers say,
never mind.

m.f.c.