THE MOON THAT NEVER WENT AWAY,

  I

STILL THE WORD, MISINTERPRETED, SOMETIMES GRIM.

AS SHAPED IN HISTORY, SINCE I’VE MEMORY.

SCULPTED ON THE UNIVERSE,

WITH WORDS FROM OTHER SITES.

STILL A  VOICE JUMPING ON TIMES.

I COULD BREATH YOUR LOVE FLOATING IN AIR,

AT THE BALCONY OF THE REDLY BRICKS,

THAT IN SORROW CRYING REMAIN.

YOUR PINKLY MOSS HAIR, THAT SLIDED MY FEET.

A HANDKERCHIEF OF A WHITELY LACE,

HANGING ON THE FISHES CASE.

AND A TWO COLORS FISH, LIVING FROM THE CHIMERAS.

KILLED THEMSELVES, DESPICABLE OMISIONS,

WITH NO WARNINGS, WITHOUT ARMISTICES OF WAR.

CRUSHED BY PAIN, YOUR SENTIMENT AND MINE.

WITH NO BELIEVERS, NO MOUNERS, EVERYONE ON THEIR NESTS.

WHAT’S THE ODDS?...WE SAW THE FACE OF THE FAKE MIEN.

WITH HOLLOW EYES, PALLID FACE AND ARROGANT SMILE.

I FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF THE MILKY WAY,

I FOUND THE MOON  THAT I ALWAYS SEARCH.

FROM SIXTY SEVEN, THE ZEBRA WHITE, EUROPE I NAMED.

THE HOUSE OF THE BITTEN TREE,

REMAINED IN THAT HOLY MOON.

BUILT WITH BRICKS, THOSE FROM THE PINKLY MOSS.

BETWEENED BY IVIS, AND FLIGHTS OF BUTTERFLIES.

WITH HANDKERCHIEFS OF FOAMY CHANT.

STILL THE AQUARIUM, ALREADY WITHOUT COLOR THE FISH.

TRANSPARENT, FULL OF BUBBLES IT’S SKIN.

RIDEN BY TROUTS WITH MINDS AS NUTS.

STOLEN, FROM THE TREE STORE OF THE SQUIRRELS,

ABANDONED, DWINDLING OF HUNGER THE WITCHES.

WE WON THE WAR, THERE WERE NOT ARMISTICE.

WE WERE HAPPY IN EUROPE, IN THE TWENTIETH.

ON THE BITTEN TREE OF THAT LOVELY MOON,

THAT NEVER… NEVER WENT AWAY.