The moon, held suspended on a cloud
like a jewel in an outstretched palm
that clenched its fist
over a creative instrument
that prisms the light to beam through the sky.
From this vantage,
see the night thaw into a fleeting image
of my own willingness
to let the past be prologue
and memory become notes in a ship’s log
bound for East Point
painted on the horizon
like a raised birthmark over a darkened skin,
it’s set in its own isolation.
Through the El Greco sky of the mind,
unsteady in the swirl of shade and light,
poles teeter on the edge of each other ,
delicately dancing in the glow.
Where it beckons you’ll follow,
tracing lines to their inevitable ends,
leaving a progeny of words
strung against words
like a procession of lanterns
engulfed by waves
extinguished candles of breath
that craved oxygen,
building up only to give in to collapse.
All the thoughts and differing shades of meaning
shifting the gleam to tide pools cascading
from an overarching theme,
where everything is passing through.
For a moment the moon holds true,
weightless and suspended in a bubble of foam.
A perfect circle, timeless, eternal,
always returning home.
yakskinpocketnotes 