the moonlight falls
like little brown stones
whisked by goldfish tails
& sunless sails
whipped by nyctophobic winds
settle soft.
moon crests the hill
& curls sweetly
into an eyelidded embrace
& the last notes of the night
fall into nothingness.














Comments
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-This is it. What do we do now?
-Enjoy it.
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If I'm not writing, I'm just sitting here changing oxygen into carbon dioxide. Like a baby. A little shit and piss factory, maybe one day a man. Be a man today, motherfucker.
If this was your intention, congratulate yourself.
I generally enjoyed reading this poem.
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You don't know me.
So don't act like you do.
Don't ask me either,
'Cause I too don't have a clue.
... Evelyn ...
"moon crests the hill
& curls sweetly
into an eyelidded embrace"
Wonderfully said. I just love it. But I don't quite understand:
"& the last notes of the night
fall into nothingness."
I don't think that the silence you wrapped it up in really fits. I think it should be louder than whicsking fish tails and soft winds at this point, if the night is wrapping up. But, just a thought.
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"...It's the sky that's the challenge
The sky that engulfs a sea of sound and echoes it back to us
Whole poems whole dictionaries, rolled up in a thunderclap
And every sunset an action painting, every cloud a book of shadows..."
-Lawrence Ferlinghetti
It was basically a very airy, light thought, which didn't take me long to get down on paper.
Thank you for your lovely comment! :)
--
Ribston Pippin'.
thank you for your lovely comment :)
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Ribston Pippin'.
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Ribston Pippin'.
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