Lonely Moonchild

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Bottled up feelings kept out of sight and hidden from view. They weigh you down, pulling you beneath the surface. Too many relics, too much junk. Always silent, never releasing. Never speaking the fears that choke you when you’re alone. Lost in the woods, in a maze of trees and broken dreams. Depression, anxiety. Nervous bouts of despair. Guilt. Too much guilt. The secrets that eat away- that pierce like arrows. Inwards and outwards, inflicting without reason. An invisible war, devastating and not there. False realities. False mirrors. The shame of being so weak. Of being less than a man. The storms that brew on the horizon have consumed me more than they should have. But I never told a soul. I kept quiet. Better that way. Keep it all locked up. Don’t show weakness, that’s how it was given to me. Be strong. A statue. No emotion. Get drunk, don’t talk about love. Show everyone you’re normal. That deep inside, there’s nothing to see. You’re just like everyone else. Never arouse suspicion. That’s how it works. Lonely moonchild, swimming so lonesome in rivers unseen. Sometimes, my love shines through the mist. It finds its way home. Just some comfort, wishing to come in from the cold. Curled up before the fire, and scratching its claws against the wooden legs of a table. Watching her as she hushes, I’m hypnotized as she dances. The way her body gyrates. So sensual and rhythmic. Natural like the trees. Haunting like cries in the night. A Venetian canal boat, and the sounds of classical music. Naked before me, she falls on the bed. It’s raining. The trees sway. The earth turns plunging damp landscapes into darkness. Making love before the fire, we swirl like smoke. Mirrors and sleep. Silhouettes and bedsheets. Laying there drinking beer my mind is full of dying stars. My passion spent. There’s no need to feel sad, no reason to feel disenchanted. Just breathe in the sepia light of early evening skies. Shadows in silent cities and fragments of faith. Grinning like absent lovers, circling like wolves in the snow. Teeth sharp and pure like the flesh of her thighs. The vibrations of her heartbeat. Crimson. Soft. The fantasies flow within my mind. They come like little deaths. They shake as an ancient monastery collapses in a vast desert, crumbling like a thousand yesterdays. Mythic, soulful, and louder than a thousand bombs in her vulva. Exploding along the pathway to her arms and upon the ridges of her sex. Urban hell, flashing like the lights of a downtown bar. Seedy, terrible and glorious like pornography.

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