Heavy bones weighted like illuminati.
Dark and porous, prone to fits of flight.
Suspended now in sleep as the moon watches.
Casting an orbous eye over this place.
It came without sound, scooping out the soul.
Lifting it up into that lunar landscape.
The silent soul stealer, the moon dancer of dreams.
To be played with only upon consentation with the darkness.
The body, cast aside while the moths played havoc.
Is that starlight in the blood?
Foreign dust in cells that shake and split.
Do these craters mimic the grief that marks me?
If all this is what I see, what lies beyond the solar scene.
That moon gravity and grey seam of space.
Is it just another place.
For me to plan my escape?
Havoc and Consequence 