To the Crescent Moon in the Fog
How difficult it is to find a subject that wishes to stay lost! For this subject, when in danger, can find ways and places to hide that not even the most eager and earnest person might uncover. And in the early morning fogs that the subject creates to remain vanished from sight, one might find glimpses of flitty things that might be this creature, or just another objective after which one simply does not lust. So elusive is my lost subject that he not only creates a fog, but he hides the sun as well in order to prevent the mist from lifting. My creature remains lost.
When over the pale horizon rises the crescent moon, I am stricken by a disease most unusual. It strips me of my ability to think clearly or move without stumbling. With fumbling fingers I ammept to awaken my body from its paralysis with a slap to the face, for I tell myself, It Is Only The Moon! But I simply can't listen to myself, for this new and beautiful moon has captured all of me in its cheshire vicegrip. I wish to remain a victim of the disease of the moon forever.
And in the days where the moon becomes lost in the fog... I die.
When over the pale horizon rises the crescent moon, I am stricken by a disease most unusual. It strips me of my ability to think clearly or move without stumbling. With fumbling fingers I ammept to awaken my body from its paralysis with a slap to the face, for I tell myself, It Is Only The Moon! But I simply can't listen to myself, for this new and beautiful moon has captured all of me in its cheshire vicegrip. I wish to remain a victim of the disease of the moon forever.
And in the days where the moon becomes lost in the fog... I die.