~birds at the sepulcher~
~black wing twisted waistcoats~
~looking through the window~
~her lover disturbed him~
~a dead one-eyed stair~
~climb me up quick~
~don’t wanna drown alone~
~the semen dream~
~Music the Winter Moon Invites~
His brother called him a liar. Some days his knows him better than he has strung words around his throat. One day he might just jump off this planet. He feels as if the moon owns him. Fearful of water, he is drawn to tides, a drowning man contemplating suicide.
If hell existed, this would be it, he believes. He is hiding in the body of his former self, telling it no, refusing it succor. The woman it loved is poised and ready to bury her fangs and rip off its head. Some folks are too ignorant to be afraid. They become the next brave victims.
He remembers the music they made, noise like cannibals, he and his brother, aborigines in the desert pounding dry sticks against hollow stones. Drug lions pounced from under cars, stole away the children from their used to be. He has a live puppet for a wife and a corpse for a bed mate.
Wonders as he pulls the winter moon down to his eyes that they may yet be drawn to it without her at his side, the troposphere reach of their seek. Will she share it with a new stranger as he fades from her heart, disappears from her dreams. He truly dreads the winter’s end. Summer lightning without her will come rip through his heart.
Children riding sidewalk wagons come rolling down to meet him. There is nothing in the world like their laughing, its absolute synchronicity with his being. Bells, bells, haunting, peeling, beckoning. Where church spiders live, his eyes follow alone and no one sees.
Tomorrow the ten-penny city awaits. Counters mete out the coin of the realm. In the shadow of the woman stands a boy, his face a face the man had come to love. The boy’s father devours him and the man must run away because and before he swallows them both. She will not have him; there is nowhere left to hide.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©