Moonlight Confessions

You mask it as solicitous care
But who mandated you to decide
What's wrong for me, and what is right?

You paint an abstraction of my life
Dream fortunately fixable fallouts
But here's my confession, Babe:

I fixed the door.
It opens no more.

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Disintegrated Doubts

My disintegrated doubts
are no resolution of delight
no promise to revivify

My disintegrated doubts
are a reclamation
of uncharted territory

...

1/2

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2025 Wrap-Up

Deleterious winds, and impending liberation, brought is to the precipice of another year, anticipation the preface of the next...

1/3

What follows after the maelstrom is not simply renewal. It is an internal remodeling to liberate the gremlins from your system, and give them a holiday. When they return, you hopefully managed to raise your vibration enough for one of the futures where no gremlins exist.

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At the cove's edge, the shadows revealed soul-nixing follies. Lewd leisure made skin shiver in disgust.

Take a breath mint, and move on.

They say, these places have love for sale. But they really sell bodies, in increments, left a little more hollow after each deal.

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"The meter drives our passion,"
that's what you said.

By now, I have
thought it through thoroughly,
carefully considered every word,
and, after a sleepless night,
came to this conclusion:

I have no idea what you meant.
Is it a brilliant placeholder
for a deeper design,
or merely a glorious farce?
Please, help me understand.

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Strain

Armors don't work for me.
They wear me down.
As does the torturous crapulence
from substances I could use
to numb all intensity.

Those are mere toys,
to weave an illusion of safety
as if there ever was anything
within our control.

It's not.
You can't use a sieve
as a barricade, I know.
But it can strain the toxins.
That'll do.

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The entrance of the knight in shining armor turned out to be a damp squib when the ramparts of his sonnets crumbled under her genuine gaze. She picked up the leftovers, and turned his poetry into free verse.

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Starlight twinkles, as if the sky, cloaked in black velvet on a cold night, winks at me to say:

"Unwrap me!"

I pull the golden ribbon of shooting stars.

A silver moon rises, reflecting in a new light, and I'm finding hope - not like a lightning bolt in toasty apolausticism, but rather in the frosty modesty of this silent night.

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