Moon.

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I have no hands
In which to stroke
The barely there fingernail
Of the blood-red martini moon.

I have no legs to walk past the glass of
the window of this structure
the key to my lock, the lock that faces
both the outside world that encases
the slice of red that the world may never see again.

I have no words to describe the god-like shape
in which the cretonne masked glass
touches the thick air veiling the rustic curve
from my eyes, I have no eyes
to see the sky’s laceration
the end to its creation,

suns come up to dissolve the blood
An act of vandalism for the mind
the mind I do not have
the head I do not own
the body I cannot control.





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