My shadow starve without the ghost of your silhouette infront of my moon's manifestation. I try to do what it takes but I can neither erase my body, the darkness you stepped into or yon horned Selene.
Come now son is it true you yen to set anchor under my ripe and pale orange moon, light my nights with your dineval watercraft and it's shinning green lamplights, ensnare my polaris in a fish hook with a stolid pair of hands. Up you go with my compass up to the ground up to the midpoint and to the sky we dance. There your silhouette sways in mad spins your hands once again buckle the bait by little bits on each lash you bared over the stream of your silent yet vehement eyes; openly to me unashamedly with a certainty that I would never dare to blind you with my whole open mouth to your eyes that I will never take the cyan ferity away with the ghost of a demure tongue.
My starvation was been harvested with your forward ways and religious palms; has been planted unbridled with your love, suckled in it's saturated batten timbers, submersed in it's bitter treacle of hard keel.
I know that you'd feed me now and I want more of this subtle way gentleness held herself on you I want more of the blazing hot skin seemingly smooth like a baby in a warm bath of rosemary leaves and olive oiled milk, of that thread you tie your charcoal locks with and that golden ring of raven's head slowly starting to descent into the backbone of your slender fair finger back into the bone marrows of your defined broadened back to make you a birdman. I want you all for me before my outer casing seize to mentor my soul into living. My mouth then will grow to be bigger than my face, bigger than my heart and you'd stop feeding me because I did already eat myself there in the end.
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Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)
PoetryKillin' a few with a smile is what's called romanticism of war 🫀 Short texts about my mental affliction
