There he slept
sunken and broken
bent and withered,
dripping with dust.
His blistered spine,
the metallic prize,
his neurotic burdens,
the corrosive rust.
-
The moon swayed
from a tethered noose,
tied to a notch,
he had carved in the sky.
Its legs and fingers
twitched with remorse,
its face vivid and bright,
refusing to die.
-
As he awoke to the creaking
of the moon’s botched throne,
madness gripped him
and turned him to stone.
He screamed to the Gods,
and the moon’s deadly vine,
he proclaimed to the heavens…
-
“I’m doing just fine”.
