A story poem

A crimson full moon, veiled in wispy clouds.
Photo by Lenstravelier on Unsplash

November’s full moon tumbles hazily towards December’s skies
Ravishing curved orb aglow in shades of crimson and smokey quartz gold
Waning to half size, then to a delicately luminous crescent
The earth gazes with longing at her oldest friend, hoping she’ll return
And just before she vanishes into the velvet darkness of space
The moon…

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It matters not if the sky is perforated with drops of rain,
or radiant, golden beads of sunlight,
I wake each day to breathe the ruptured air
and climb onto my toes to reach new elevations.

I am like the needle pulling thread,
the thread that mends,
the soul that heals,
the heart…

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Scribe

Stories that matter. Emotion first and foremost.

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