The Back of The Moon

Glowing in florescent splendour and shying from the fame of the spotlight. You were always there stalling away in the backround and waiting for he that would fill your spoons and colour your pigments, but they would rather reach at a gold nugget sky the same way that a dog would lap at an egg as if extracting the yolk or knaw at a bone to draw its flesh. But since that I am a coward and spend my days in flight, I followed the foul while it ponderd backwards and I subtracted the distance between eldorado and the common unity to sum up your circumference, and in that feast of apple pie, in a mutant freanzy of dreams when the leaves turned brown and carried by the wind, I picked up your scent, turned my head and found you kiting against the wind.