The Glowing Moon
The streets are dark.
The glowing moon
shines on the sleeping
trees and naked leaves.
It shines for hours
and hours. It shines
on the houses too.
I welcome the moon.
I talk to myself.
The glowing moon
fits in my hand in
the most absurd dream.
The Stones are Watching
The stones are watching me.
They look through my naked soul.
They are silent and rough.
They are not without judgment.
Perhaps they hope I could
change. I cannot stand myself.
They are hard on me. Still
I am free to dismiss them.
I stare at nothingness.
Unwisely, I pick
up the mute stones and toss
them far away.
Passing judgment, the stones
do not speak. They
fill me with guilt and grief.
They seem to be
much more human than me.
Nobody Sleep
Nobody sleep.
The prowling moon will get you.
Its hands of light
will search you out where you sleep.
Walk away from
its touch of death. The prowling
moon needs to fill
its quota for its prisons
and madhouses
deep in the jungle of the
moon, where poets
like moths fall for its bright lights.
Nobody sleep.
The prowling moon will only
take the dreamers.
Perhaps it’s not a bad thing.
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