08-21-2024, 11:26 PM
Mon Frere
I woke in the moon of sensation,
the sun dawned and the heat of compassion
smothered me till I rose in the air
of my mind—an illusion.
I walked to the moon; the sun
wrapped in my arms, I said nothing:
same as I've always said.
Her touch, a silhouette of difference
as pronounced as the sun during an eclipse.
A Double of fire castrating the wind
as if it were a storm petrifiedÂ
into flesh, an actress defined by her role.
And this reality, torn by catastrophe,
feeds and eats the mind like the sun and the moon.
Now I drink, like an ant eats
its kind, and party alone
as though I were twelve, me and my angel,
cracked between people on
the pantacle of this Earth, opposed
to any other. I lie in her bed
as she writes. She's Baudelaire.
I woke in the moon of sensation,
the sun dawned and the heat of compassion
smothered me till I rose in the air
of my mind—an illusion.
I walked to the moon; the sun
wrapped in my arms, I said nothing:
same as I've always said.
Her touch, a silhouette of difference
as pronounced as the sun during an eclipse.
A Double of fire castrating the wind
as if it were a storm petrifiedÂ
into flesh, an actress defined by her role.
And this reality, torn by catastrophe,
feeds and eats the mind like the sun and the moon.
Now I drink, like an ant eats
its kind, and party alone
as though I were twelve, me and my angel,
cracked between people on
the pantacle of this Earth, opposed
to any other. I lie in her bed
as she writes. She's Baudelaire.