Tag Archives: moon

Ogre Spiders

In the empire of the moon
shadows spill like Sunlight,
colors cower in fright
the Ogre wakes soon
in the empire of the moon.

Though the darkness leaves others without sight
the ogre finds the whole world bright
such contrasts are boon
in the empire of the moon.

Weaving in the motions it will often recite
it pulls thread nautically tight
but in a shape that easily balloons
in the empire of the moon.

The ogre hides patient with spite
hanging in the air, as static as Kites
the space beneath subtly perfumed
in the empire of the moon.

Every Movement no matter how slight
send the ogre in an ensnaring flight
with webs that forever entomb
in the empire of the moon.

All the work made ‘right’
draining from the victim what excites
the greatness of the ogre is pruned
in the empire of the moon.

The burning of the days light
raging against the audacity of night
takes all that was hewn
in the empire of the moon.

Nova

Those eyes so oft transfixed
by only things they lorded over
would but on occasion dane
to dine on the extravagance above;
a passing glance at the moon,
a brief aside with the procession of stars,
the fascinating contemplations of ephemeral comets,
or the longing gaze into the darkness of an eclipse.

Long ago we could not afford this appreciation.
The stars were savage campfires,
the moon a wrathful god.
Comets would herald the end of man,
and an eclipse would end all else.
We could do no more than look away and feel safe
or look on in horror of what future we baited.

Stronger minds however were not sated,
and shackled those monsters to reality,
tearing them from the bosom of imagination,
so the world above could be a safer space to ruminate;
as long as we could make sense of the light and dark,
and still find comfort in the ground.

It was good,
until the darkness was swept away,
and all that is was light, be it day or night.
The sky, no more a blanket
but a bright bag zipped up tight
while we fought against it,
none of us ready to die.

No More

There is no place to start anymore
   there is only an ending
      a period to close the time
               where the day falls
               against the wall
               dreaming of doors
               and the name of hope
                  dies in a whisper on its lips

This period is just a long sentence unfinished
   that kept running
               and running
      long after the path had grown over
   stuck in the weeds of an epilogue
      mourning the life of a prologue
               desperately searching for a new beginning.

When the book closes
   There is a cloud of dust
      that the sun lights on fire
               in silence
   the dust settles before nightfall

      The moon is away this evening.