shimmering

The moon maybe pure

gold,  I don’t know.

A gold piece thrown

and buried in an ocean

of endless ink to lighten the

pirate’s ship chased by

gunfire.  I cannot say

for sure that the moon’s

reflection, stretched and

shimmering on the top

of a dead calm sea

may not be melted silver

that was heated ‘til it rolled and

skimmed and rode the

surface unable to

gather itself, slipping

like mercury

through our fingers,

out of the grasp of

anyone or anything.

Leaving only a cold

cloud in the night sky

that maybe the artist’s

smoke rising when the

last ash dropped away. It

maybe that or not anything,

It is only with certainty,

there is no mistake,

that we know when we

are lost from all,

feeling it is as true

as it can be.

 

Reviews

[. serah .]

-- beautifully written... -- i wonder if everything magnificent that we chance upon slips through our fingers like mercury... and ultimately all of us... (in one way or another) our lost to call...