The Cleft of the Moon

A lost soul has tasted the wines of rage. The kraken within her has been unleashed and strives to devour her inner light that is the only true page that scribes her life.

Just a face in the crowd,
I drink the wines of lonely flames
that burn through my core
with a fierce embrace of the whip
that lashes against my spirit
and lounges for the wall that
holds me up.
The tyrant’s juices commence on
top of my bold mind that is elated
by the warmth of your winded breathes.
But the merge that occurs at the clocks tongue
is the miser that erases the sting that has
left my heart crippled and rummaged through.
I am the one who is the devourer of the saintly
light that overpowers the darkness in the arms
of death.
And the struggles that are eased by my grave
are the eyes of the bold, and the voices of the
young who mesh their talons with the external
bodies of the living who are the cleft of the moon.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[MOON]

Beautiful prose and the cleft of the moon speaks.