it crumbles into crevices and shatters into shards
but not plummeting
(in a frozen, drifting manner; its whiskers morph but not falter)
no, the moon falls, in dips and shakes,
the uncertain moon,
the trembling moon.
the decrepit moon,
the graceless moon.
and at night the conchcaves shift and warp
unfocusing into a blur of dwindling wax
and stuffed pigs with sewn smiles that wither
when the eyes have melted.
rivers of future sorrow fade into creeks of happenstance.
a single slithering sloth of solitude
tears out a clear note and releases its ashes;
why ashes, not flames?
(inform the soulless, the senseless, the abandoned)
(wrapped in gauze of poison and resentment)
(they wait in between agonized shivers of the great clock)
the memories are sick and aging
clawing at leaden silence
but in a loop, you see;
swallowed dawns do not fight
when they collapse
and why collapse when they may gorge themselves on ignorance?
to be ignored is to fade, my dear,
(this i whisper in a voice rusty with oil)
thank you for your petals of cracked lumber.
you do not want us to snake through your eyelids
(dreams can puncture, can they not?)
although you claim that our toxicity is honeyed
please, i beg you,
we are naught but tangible sin
we creep in whispers and in hisses
we throb in the deepest of mindvoices
you must smother us with your violence
weep, my dear
we escape through tears of sweat and melted bone
you shall disappear.
This piece won an Honorable Mention in the 2017 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.