Full Moon Eclipse

I'm a wobbly gadget
on a bone china plate
dizzy from wine
that just won't relate

to the fog of my flashbacks,
the green of my thumb,
where heart becomes heavy
and reason

is numb.

Oh help me, please help me,
alone in my loft,

please help me remember
the gifts that came soft to
vibrations of futures
with hope for much more

and remind me of why

I will try

to be fair
with this fair headed lass
who bleeds color from all,

takes what is given,
pushes to fall
through a spiral
of darkness
where words matter not.

Like a note on a card --
no more meaning
than that.

I'm the tide on
her white-sand,
the spoon with her dish.
I can't go on drinking
a brew such as this
when her hops and her grains
twist blows into shape

at the nape of her needs

to push light away,
to press limit's luck
to the edge of her fray.

It's a matter of time,
that she makes it my fault.
When I start to believe
she forms her assault,

begs me to grieve
for a sun I can't reach;
grasping at words
that rise in my head

         words that we spoke,
         words that we said;

those dreams that were
cherished for what
might become ...

lost to me now;

a morsel,

a crumb.

She forgets who I am
still pleads her desire --
and though I might listen,

I know she's a liar.








Pamela A. Lamppa
Copyright © 2013
all rights reserved