Circumstances' draftee

Through a stream of stillborn tears,

a bugle sounds, a summon for duty.

Amidst the grapple with unchecked fears,

a heart pines for unending beauty.

Victory awaits beyond the sea,

uncertain it is, if it'll stand to see.

The sight ahead ceased to be,

as the mind doodled in fantasy.

Fingers that love fondling colors,

cannot be forced monotony.

A soul from a garden of flowers,

can only wander aimlessly.

The threshing under pointless misery,

befell the only one who wasn't ready.

Skidding on failures' slurry

it's too late for the ship to steady.

Cry for the moon

Abandoning the moon's gentle embrace,
you reach for the sun buried
beneath rotting layers of borrowed wisdom,
with hunger for company.

The sun is getting warmer,
the moon has peace to offer.
Pride and hunger urge you on,
and you're too blind with rage to beat retreat.

Your shovel breaks as the moon weans.
The sun dawns but there's no light.
The sun is the same moon in a different way
a frown, but a smile upside down.

You claw your way out,
and it's a different world.
The sun is still buried
but won't you cry for the moon?