L U N A

There is something about the moon.
It is splendid; magical.
In the darkness of the night, I lay beside my restless bones,
and allow the mind inside my head, to wander out alone.
It reaches its grand heights, it knows not where it goes,
but every night it makes its way to a place too far away from home.
Somewhere..Next to the stars, above the sky..it converses with the Moon.
The Moon...tells its stories. Some horrid, with beauty;
Often of sadness, mostly of glory. Both of pending, and past.
The mind stays and listens; sheds tears, and then glistens;
becomes intrigued by each word the Moon swiftly speaks away..
The Brain, The Brain..It paints its own pictures; soft dark dancing figures;
3, 4, 2, 1... out of order it comes.
The Brain; like a pistol..
two bullets, one deep shot.
It triggers each moving figure...into my head and then...
I'm still not dead.