Moon of the long hunt keeping count of my restless review. Seeking some cumulative fact of existence from this cool flow of memories.
What is my life but a silhouette of moments?
The moon of two knives pitched toward pride and hope grabbing tomorrow while holding hands with the past.
The questioning heartache of a mourning dove’s call
The moon I don’t remember, of all I have not done. Making shadow from substance making this morning one unalterable conclusion; an indictment of equality: nothing was mine to waste.
saying, “Nothing was mine to waste.”