The Boat And The Moon

It rocked on the cradle of the brook;

Where the silver shadow embraced the rill’s crook;

The houseboat with adorned windows at the deck’s edge;

The white night lit his inebriation atop the ledge.

A petal landed on the drink in his palm;

Disturbing the moon’s image calm;

Florets rise up towards the lunar air;

His sombre profile was in a haze, ever fair.

Adrift on the cold waters;

Heart constricted in fetters;

That orb high, his lone beacon;

Yet it’s no guide, for it waxes and wanes, no charitable deacon.

Always on the move;

The vessel, his anchorless home; his despairing spirit and spent body… a beckon of death doth behove;

Dismal, the barge ambles by;

His soundless screams sprout wings and fly;

A barefoot on the sill of wood;

Blank, olive eyes glisten for an instant, and the irises slightly flood;

A momentary hope;

But he lets go of that minute scope.

The souls of the dead await;

The dark side of the sphere in this hour late;

Too many he cherished;

He dips his hand into the river and raises it, the fluid slips wish no longer embellished.

A libation poured;

The gleaming arc of liquid soared;

Only witnesses, the emerald stream and the sapphire abode of the lune;

Not a whisper, not a tune.

“Why does no one run a blade through my chest?

I could repose by their side and finally rest!”

No observer;

Long forgotten how to pray, there existed no holy preserver.

The rescuing wind flutters the butterflies on his garb;

“Your sorrow you must curb;

Alter this course, make haste;

The celestial craving is ruinous; give up not your essence chaste.”