“Even on the clearest nights,
The moon hides herself.
As if she knows the cruelty of existing.
As if she knows the difference between secrets and confessions.
My thoughts are a dead language.
If not a word is said or written,
Is it still there?
With poetry, I abuse myself.
Beaten black by the sentences untying themselves from around my heart.
Every imprint; a new stanza.
Every rope burn; a new promise.
I will always be a tortured soul.
Even on the cloudiest of nights,
The moon; her and I speak the same dead language.
Her secrets I will keep like a locket around my neck.
My confessions she will take as a new shadow painted onto her ever changing face.”
What a waxing heart I keep.