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

 

Necrosed Ideology

itch/

raw pressed flesh sore

beyond scabs flecked insolence

 

sigh/

blood threads awful sign

of tangible fluid

life in crimson

 

listen/

orchestrated pain

handheld waves of distraction,

tainted tongue sings mettallic

 

milky/

secreted thoughts weeping tears,

unfurled ideals a barren burned flag,

lighten the heart as you pick

 

rushes/

into the arena

no pressed olive leaves or branches

all that was ancient spilled

overnight into turgid oceans swell

 

glassy/

eyes of expectant ones

embracing the sore flesh your body

offers

tragic tide of words come

 

slicks/

the machinations of policy

as the wounded lain in constitution

heart blasts trumpet

from the top

all visibility is bright in context

and the healing begins

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