The moon drips dreams tonight
long silver strings
threads woven into spines
of the books on library shelves
the stars flash jealousy
brilliant with disgust
at how the moon gives herself away
we read words of blue
and marvel over their meaning
stories we can not comprehend
written by ghostly hand perhaps
in a strange configuration
told in backward progression
Some days I feel this moronic
head a rats nest of memories
there is no beauty in my words
only painful reflection
and bits of the moons silk
woven into the canyons of my brain
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