Poetry and Prose Collection XXI
*all writing pieces originally from Instagram @mi.haloes*
“moon man”
My dearest mister moon man,
I have been counting the stars and their sisters,
their ancestors and descendants,
that lay far across the milky way.
I holler to you, sending my dearest wishes in the form of a century-long awaited comet and its golden remnants,
patiently waiting the days until I will return to your gentle gravitational field and orbit with you.
My dearest mister moon man,
I look forward to meeting you again one day.
(2023, Aug 29)
“until our blood runs still”
When the death of a rose leaves its petals on the hardwood, the mysteries of the cracks in the floorboards rise to top.
The walking of footsteps echo within the hallways that once denied one’s entrance in.
The wishes for a silent night are overturned by the rustling of the ghosts that once ruled these walls.
As the ballroom door opens wide for us, the visitors, to this haunting ritual; calling to us with the organ pipe that hides in the depths of the mansion that only ring and scream at the strike of midnight.
This room, this house, this land — it writes and scars our hearts with its ghastly presence.
It now chooses to haunt us until our blood runs still.
And for me, my love,
mine has already gone hush.
(2023, Aug 31)
“my cavalry”
I call to my cavalry from their stations afar,
hurrying through the fields and flowerbeds as if the dangers that follow my shadows hide within the soles of my boots.
Torn, worn, and stubbornly marching forward.
Upon the setting bed of the grand star, the blanketing mountains in the horizon tuck its ostentatious child into a deep slumber.
A gentle lullaby that rocks the world into a generous evening of tranquility and harmony,
as if a nightmare awoke the greatest fears in a population of sleeping mice and men.
And with the changes of the dawning tides, I call to my cavalry from their stations afar again.
I call them to my aide again.
I call them mine,
and claim them to be forevermore.
(2023, Sept 5)
“daffodils”
As the water in the vein of the daffodil flows stronger with every passing increment of time,
the gradual influx amongst the divine intricacies grow ever more resilient into the genuineness of a lived life.
Like a river that links all possible beginnings and endings to its inner core,
like a mother that conjoins the entity of spirit and science,
the mysteries of its emergence cascades upon the reflecting starlights in the reflections of waterbedded crystal cut mirrors.
Through the dewdrops that now dance upon the veined leaves of the daffodil,
a new beginning has spoken.
And through the embrace of a lived life,
an ending has awakened.
(2023, Sept 7)
