Under this killing moon // Under this burning sky

wonder

a smallest tick can lead a click to a close,
mere fractions of workers that design dresses for repose,
a pretty white gown,
a gossamer frown,
dandelions all lined in your undergrowth,
keeping secrets smelling,
letting smell steal secrets for show,
rattle the trap
in honor of a real fiend for once,
dance just to be alone,
live just to dance,
find the inner romance
or suffer the gift of time entombed

fun

of all the service I’ve served since serving was struck steady in my soul

I’ve never held the service of my own,

I serve the ground by following only where it goes,

I serve the sky by following only what it shows,

I serve the flesh by taking the shape of only what it holds,

I serve history by knowing what I’m told,

I’ve never held the service of my own,

loss becomes little because little means litter,

no recycling no give-backs no control,

I’ve never held the service of my own,

loss becomes little because little has no room

for substance,

footsteps that falter are greased with service again

and we all return to serving the service that staples itself to our sun

and blocks out the stings and sores of simply having none,

but I’ve never held the service of my own,

in night - in depth - in reach - in tower

I hide my precious linens and wait for the severed hour,

to walk me to the door and introduce me to the staff

that have come to serve the service of my own

a menial masquerade

beaten path, runway stash,

keep the best for the rest when the sunset gets mad,

it glows and breathes behind cold sheets

but you can’t keep it quiet once the anger becomes teeth,

count your lucky burns

and count your sunset sheets

because when the teeth come for meat you don’t want to be

the favorite treat