Hungry Moon
to the moon,
a bat is nothing but a cursed fly,
a shriveled cherub,
mene mene scrawled in tenebrous chaos.
songbirds are lost, long gone flirts,
whose tasty arpeggios
titillated every pore
on the body of sound.
every sunset, it's the same,
the same cheshire cat grin,
a fiery languor on the horzon,
owls and loons are too lean and haunted.
even the cryful crickets,
more boney than plump,
yearn for a chirr where the dancers
can see each other twirl.
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10/31/23 ... Lots of mods... still not much confidence.
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