There’s a voice to this chill,
perhaps the moonlit sky grants love—
serenity – to those with dreams
weaned by hearths,
but I dance in a ballad
to the waning whys and
the waxing wherefores
lips bit to keep me from slipping off into God knows.
in a cycling wake I biting ease –
forehead to wall
I rest a thumb to a page where words mend hearts
but I cannot expose raw thoughts to such a page
an epoch fits a title for my musings go without recordon bottles and bottles do I look for a sun.