At the bottom of the Moon

bare feet trod moonlight to dust

fine gravel texture

uneven to skin,

left behind the idle machines

that make dreams work,

gentle pace

aching feet,

silence is non negotiable

it fills the dark of night,

feeling of solitude

encroaches,

limbs torso illuminated,

lift lips to light

drink some,

as if pouring wine

down the throat.

nagging worries deferred

into a deeper region

of subconscious ,

as the interlude begins

properly

3wordwednesday