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Now
too many diamonds
are cut
with scintillating edges from
an esoteric
swollen page. Bought minute shav-
ings all collect under
shadows drawn by the rhetoric of olden
blades. Their blunt, tarnished hours
spent degraded sifting through glinting sands after a golden age.

An old
man asleep
beside a spill swal-
lowed deep is a plastic pill
oceans surround a swell
unstill floundered
drowns slum-
ber’s kill.

It is late. In
the day. When
finding. Our true
           purpose. For.         
The things that had. 
To happen for us. To    
reach that point. Will.
Have taken their toll.

Yet, look on up in dark sky.
At the Moonshine — 
a magical nighttime milkwhite furnace.

Carries the fuel of your wishes
within Her mighty pull.
A pull so forceful She can carry   
oceans by their calcium-crested waves across Earth’s surface.
And, a cream gleam so bright
it will pale any gemstone:
dull.

© poormansdreams

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