selenicMature

I smoke joints alone at three am, counting stars and scars,
sitting on the windowsill, blowing smoke rings at the outline 
of the moon behind the sweeping clouds, the dark and 
ashen strokes an eerie warning of the building storm.

The creature within my body that craves the changing tide 
peels back my skin and breathes deeply, my terrarium heart 
stirs with quiet life.  Constellations poke holes in the altostratus gloom 
and though the ocean is miles away I feel her gathering force.

The End

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