the moon has no balloons now the counted days
raising seas to bate the spinning crop
of mans mankind of quiet seminar.
for all of what is worth to legends lost
the comet for a thousand eyes that breathe
to follow sleep as one where thunder lies.
each turn of pen on the globes uncharted skies
words as frail as skin on a sunken face
tracing hand-to-root to the hidden door.
to the solid base of void where fate betrays
strangers lost in pockets less deserving you and I
let not a heart be twinned with winters tales.
with heart of rook that stares no feathers down
let no stone turn it\'s vengance on a thought.
the moon has no balloons
now the counted days
still follow sleep
while hides the troll of insignificance;