~the inspiration gained from nightcaps and moonbeams~
do you know the treasures
that yet lie inside my fingertips,
that the choir in my chest might be revealed,
the loneliness that punishes within these silent halls?
I've curled against the straight edge of a ruler,
beneath the frightened sheets of a child,
sliding into dementia's vision borrowed from alcohol -
strange, the songs that lie between eyelashes
floating on pools of precious angels;
I lift myself in vulgar resurrection
requesting this resolution
that my hands might somehow touch,
encircle their sorrow,
and scratch it down once again.