the moon grows heavy

the moon grows heavy, the goddesess womb of nectar,
my eyes grow dim with a resonance in my heart,
seeds and storms under the curvature of wishes and guesses,
the contracts of waiting for the right moment,
the contact and reaching for the feeling that is somewhere jitterry aflight in the night with attempts to walk the fire of sympathy for myself,
bouncing heels and humps, buzzing heaps,
with enough layers to fill each shadow with warm threads of dancing whirlpool visions,
sleepy edge moon steepings,
all wrapped up with the nights crystal clear new names,
a backwards inscription that reads handle with care,
the moon grows heavy, the window to the heart chamber,
the weight of a monsoon curled up in green teaser affection.
undistance that survives speaking doorways in pouring sand,
who opens the drifting emptyings?
cliff dreamer rhyme dance,
a reach and a push from some friendly familiar forlorn force,
red shift of a thousand stars,
the moon grows heavy,
a box with no corners and all the ends forsaken,
time tests the emergence with a toast of blood and gland,
an autograph and an aftermath for safekeeping,
a sign that fits into the wind with a single utterance,
unclaimed delicate offerings in a pounding gaze,
a quiet place in a seething framework,
distinct syllables in expanses of twilight,
a shoreline on fire with no ocean,
a restitution with no savior,
a wind that blows through the mission and sets the floorboards on fire, temperature tripper,
my scalps wears thin, my eyes are freezeing cold,
there’s an old saying in the rafters, freed by the flames,
is it the voice of the buildings skeletons bones, or is the skeleton given a voice of its own,
no choice but to live as if everythings turning to gold,
I float higher and higher, my breath stretches thin, into a braille code,
too frail to read, my ears witness gods rareified lullaby,
a tearing apart of all that which is known through flesh and blood,
until that final indestructable thread is revealed, a single breath without inhale or exhale,
a silent turning that plays with my imagination until I take it for reality,
the moon grows heavy and turns to blood,
in the flashing circle the twisted membrane of my choice uncoils, and finally I can rest.
wrapped up in some warm warping whisper,
a gust of some gentle itching agitation,
outlandish drooling disturbance,
waiting for nothing in particular, passed up, passed around, passed over,
a light at the end of the tunnel spills around in kaleidoscopic daydreams,
pictures of freedoms and failures,
all so familiar I take in a deeper refuge, plead no contest in quiet laughter,
bathed and refreshed in the images of my alter ego so close at hand,
where my true longing rests, all the attempts to live up to demands of a demons needs,
my hands grasp at shadows,
my bed sheds ashes,
the dance restored to perfect harmony of understanding and acceptance.