Maybe it was the full moon that cinched
me around my throat to remind me that
I am not in control. It does that, you know,
to the tide. The moon, a manic puppeteer,
operates water at will never even touching
a tear, never asking for permission. Just
takes command. As I slip away, am set aside,
ignored except for the wildfire glowering down
illuminating my emptiness, that great hole
in the middle of my being, unable to seize
a breath to bellow, I am left to cower
under the conflagration, to rest and ache.
But it will wane and fade once more and
I will gain perspective in its shimmer.