I watch the Moon shrivel on her side,
cloaked, an electric world stunts her hazed glow
and I call in low tones
that echo cross the bay,
she sways on a cool Spring tide.
It's as if these long days tear at skin
exposing old truths I've buried within, and I cannot contain, calm, nor disuade
when her light casts a shadow on my face.
I've wanted more - in the Summer there's more
yet ghosts feed on my chilled Winter frame. I am lonelier here.
I fear I feel you
or wish that I did.
I can't bear feeling wicked inside.
I desperately want to be a person I am proud of -
it's like I was born rotting onwards,
thinking forwards, I suppose, we all were.