Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

The Evening Moon

She was a flightless bird of prey.
I swallowed her words and remember
Eyes that would not drop me.

I tempted her anger and loss
Of speech ensued as she told
Stories of heaven from the inside out.

I had never known beauty,
This mute who screamed with her hands
And held warnings like infants.

She had a graceful leap and would
Cast stones into the souls that
Feigned faith in her thoughts.

She was nothing more and everything less,
A peach without a pit who stole
A glance at death and never returned.

I remember her now, fetid feet
From lack of use and the smell of roses
Upon her dried, cracked lips.

She wrote letters that seethed in
My mind many years later.
I still look to her, the evening moon,
And how she bought back my blackened heart
With fevers and icicles, dancing upon her fingertips.


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The Evening Moon

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