men’s pangs dance them into poaching curses
my pale guide you see this evening isn’t ideal
alas just float still and perfect reflect and feel its tone
witness love’s splendid seemingly joyous revelries
unique as the moon the cool lot await some large truth
but only penitence for posturing forms a bridge to grander hours
only wait to open the gate or find yourself in a mess of toil
or as bored children remain in the house doused in somber fantasies
gaze in malaise out the window at autumn’s spreading blemishes
converse with liars and tired hypocrites in plastic
all the while my blessed soul impiously
presses itself ever closer to the core of the moon
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