Lost hours

The lamp hummed:

“Regard the moon,

La lune ne garde aucune rancune,

She winks a feeble eye,

She smiles into corners.

She smothers the hair of the grass.

The moon has lost her memory.

A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,

Her hand twists a paper rose,

That smells of dust and old cologne.

She is alone

With all the old nocturnal smells

That cross and cross her brain.

The wind whispers threads of time,

Faint footsteps in a silver line,

A shadow drips from the corner of dreams,

And I drift where lost hours quietly go.

Under the quiet of midnight’s flight,

I chase the flicker of forgotten light,

The moon sings soft, a lullaby slow,

And I drift where lost hours go.

A clock ticks slow in a midnight haze,

I wander through walls of a thousand days,

A single note hangs in the air,

I follow her there,

To a place where dreams never forget,

And I am lost, but I am met.”