Imbrium

Canyons of despair is all we have
known,
In the face of a deeper occlusion,
A painting
of you in space,
Beautiful and violent,
Dying, but so alive again, still,
I remember those reclamations
that you threw cognito,
Then effaced as
a lesser death's insight,
Tonight, real intent.

No one person is a
collectable object,
And neither can I disregard
our sound new realms of
consciousness,
But you’re so close,
My hunting knife, drawn,
The sun glints off, just as well as
the moon,
Borrowed light is discrete in the
absence of brighter conversation,

My unfinished sentences are phenomena,
A mountain of fist fights and
loose ends,
Hold my head, down low,
to the left,
Whatever you want,
Turn with the leaves,
I’ll be lying awake for a century.
I gave up the ghost,
And the fact that nothing is free,
The ambiguity is a smiling grave,
off kilter with
emotion or basic instinct,
Guiding so many minds like animal calls.

The blood of our sons’ was shed long ago,
The kernel of truth
in your mouth
was the foundation for a twisted construct;
Trading silence for suffusion,
You left me lost, I found seclusion,
Consuming my pride,
Devouring my freedom,
Kings made of ash and straw,
The finest fountains darkle and fade
within their kingdoms,
Substrate movements
tempted to metaphrasic expulsion.

I would find you yet,
But the image is less than artistic,
Oil has ran, and reality waned,
I knew parts,
But the sum was fierce and sad
and gone.
Gone and dead.