Moody can be merciless
in the wrong hands.
Some have trouble
holding on to themselves
in the marsh & in the mist;
some, when a fog opens free
are swallowed whole
leaving their guts most perplexed.
In these renovated,
heavily steeping hopes,
your heroes cape's begin to darken,
drizzling memory into forecasts
dripping you on to a frying pan
burrowing across the fault line.
For me, moody is a slow brewing holiday.
This helps illuminate the stragglers
in such pulmonary beats. Here I can
find illustrious truths to hold back the shallow droppings in my ear. "We all have weaknesses. One mustn't be too stubborn to speak free the patterns of their mind." Only ignorance would ensue.