The moon is a tulip tonight,
rare and stuck to the
sky black as pupils. It’s single
petal curled into a one lip
smile, coy and mocking. Wind
pushes it but it’s stuck dumb
in the middle of fat clouds
that won’t birth–and I lay
wrapped in sheets instead
of facing it’s cold
accusations.
Stars speckle the sky, stuck
quivering scared from the
same nameless faceless fear
that keeps me inside—-silent
from the intoxicated hover of
the moon. So we sit soft
as petals and undulate against
a nothingness to remind ourselves
we’re alive.
Because the night doesn’t
know me, doesn’t know my
meager love and worship
of sky deities–doesn’t know
the sacrifice I wore on my lips,
offered to pinhole skies
with no answers. So I’ll sleep
in a bed of stars and exist
for no one, nothing but the
pumping of my own heart.
&I will sleep well.

Edited 19 March 2013.