Drinking Under the Moon

"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh


Heal me here, before the bone-built gate.
This world of skull and flesh, quiet purgatory.
A gentle abaddon, an angelic abyss.
This dawn time where we wait in the nearly light.

Undisturb my thoughts, I wish on wishes that you would travel back
through well trod paths you dappled on me like freckles.
Smooth over the chicken pock scars made by clumsy makers hands

I’ve arrived at a white salt lake.
It’s vastness shimmers around me in waves
We nomadic creatures lost in this white noise.

But you turned and ran at the smell of the rain,
leaving me at the brittle gates to Calvary.
I sleep beneath the stars that stick in me like needles –

The sun makes a beaded crown,
bare and hot, I carry both our crosses that weigh upon my hate.


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This entry was posted on February 16, 2015 by in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , .
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