It lies curled in my stomach
Breathing words that taste like peppermint
And the musty smell of abandoned books.
It struggles, caught between sentences
Subtle variations of patterns of speech
Etched in rough vinyl and the cracks on our teeth.
It preaches acceptable failure
And forgiveness in forgetting
Yet gives no heed, nor offers its own.
It whispers sadness into my skin
Melancholy voices that creep within,
Softly marching fingertips on my heart.
It may never die
But merely sleepeth
Till the end of day draws to an end.
Moonlit Poetry 