What Makes Us Poets?

I am standing on the moon

Chrysanthemum sewed in my teeth

Nailed scales in my Brain

I hold my heart in my right hand

My Love in the left

Smeared in blood

Surrounded by fire

The Umbra is my burning pyre

As I hallucinate the sun coming closer

The earth is swaying across the stars

The dance of life, it does. 

Mockery of my ebbing life

The innocent rabbits creep out of the skeleton of moon

No old man, monkey or fox.

Sans life I stare the descent of Death

'White as leprosy' It camouflages on the lunar sand

The sand is still as her cloak

All tattered and dull, she mourns.

'I look for the wench who defies my game'

Chang O now hides in the crater's den

She beholds with fearful eyes, I stay quiet 

'He who does not fear the death herself, must he live?'

I stand still holding the balance in peace

The blood now nectar

The fire all clouds

The pyre blown out

She comes and takes chrysanthemum away

And breaths back life in me

My eyes now open in trance

I float above my swollen corpse

Floating on the bath tub tile

I kiss its lips and it wakes up

The wash becomes steam

And Here I am writing poetry!