the low-riding moon is within reach
if only poet man moved more than empty steam breath
air emoting as high up as opressive earth allows
wearing the sad eyes of a really great artist
missing one bite or two around the armpits
missing the thrill of young fantasies being possible
instead is ouchreal reality
the face slap of obscurity
the miracles every morning waking up
and every night slipping away again
lie-ing himself to sleep
with pieces of here and here's memories
a moon blotted out by the sun's heat
the nearness of endless
autumn's uncaring annual aggression
the icy promises of green's eventual entropy
the icy promises that still frost the breast
a three-fisted beast with two thumping hearts
absent in this indefinite chill
morosity (the poor dear)
one of those forgettables with an outpour of feeling
some of those feelings worth transforming into words
those heartbeats that can't conform to prose
peddling lousy love poems
just begging somebody to buy it
but nightly high here it is him
only one man -
only one poet
who was only seeking more
despite how the summer had already felt cold
and winter was already coming
our poet and the luny sky tonight
had only the hotness of passion
and a silver quill
cycling thoughts about spring
the depths of blue gem waters or eyes
the sun with her pungent yellow hairs
to hibernate through his hibernation
grasped to the hope of being famous
just once. just that somewhere

[OK]

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Tenebrae, in the year 93 AM.