Contagious Nocturnal Friend

Slow is tired;
me, a cool festival
hanging limp
as a willow in the night,
you smile
like a moon favoring
one hemisphere
over the other
spraying the dark virgin air
aglow, suffused with blue
livening us, along with you,
celebrating in your over world
over, and over,
above a day,
thousands of miles
beneath our feet,
with sleep postponed
until the morn dawns
when insistent desires
fade, like children
worn with amusements;
curled flat and
heavy as lead,
with festive dreams
inside their head.


Lies of the Scorned

The thick moments
just before evaporation
become escapes.
bleeding into ears
of everyone’s listening,

gnawing upon the good
of past intimacies
with twists of perspective;
Absent eyes never seeing,
absent ears, void of fact,
sympathized for lacks of justice;
You paint new images,
of you, in their eyes;

The black you made,
then feared,
eases away with sway
while your confidence
evades despairs
for this reoccurring event.
Until you forge illusions,
stealing the light of others
to save you from the pitch
prison, brimming,
with fabricated skeletons,
even your own.