The owl chimed at my reluctance to make the moon my lover
Who needs a lunar amour,
when I have the sun to burn away
the engravings left by
fairies to summon the nightshade
they mistook as the real
me
Yes, let this smoke
empty before the moon is full,
or else she will conjure up this roadside demon
that hitchhikes in the night
hoping to find prey
for her white light
all are moths to this infernal lamp
we ignore the breasts meant to infuse
us back to our wild sense
and take the path arcing toward oblivion
hoping it will be a guide for the lack in the
black sky of self
The moon says the sky is not your vulture
that is the shadow you keep seeing weaving on the plains
of your inner sanctum
She is where you recover the art of becoming
You cannot burn yet because you haven’t even brought her
the libations of id and ego,
she will serve them back to you
as a latte that tastes like the recovery
of cinnamon,
this is the sweet taste of kerosene
that finally lets you be the torch you always wanted
to be, hanging on a pillar, in this temple floating
in the dark
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