Oh my marred ephemeral. Take me not to scopes and realms of a jarred vision.
A hollow moon has fragmented on contact. There can be no true fantasy without
A rainbow reality. Caught fast on cracks of a drought not yet cemented.
The amethyst cosmos? Nay. Blossom as the shooting star of nature, already
Numbered in life’s potentials. The shrouded beauty petals reach not high
Enough in embittered romance to touch clouds, night and least the galaxy.
And now the moon dust glitters once, recedes, then appears as one thousand
Dandelions. Standing tall with silly pride and wild, tiger cheveux. But yet
It lives to be destroyed. Shooting stars, in all walks, just simply
Die.