Bliss

 I know I was born on the bizarre side of the world. Where poets incapable of writing poetry belong.

Proud of not submitting my feelings to the yoke of metrics and lyrics. With no interest in trafficking with the vulnerability of wounded souls. That would be cannibalism.

Pyjama pants, a bare torso, and a heat that harasses me almost sexually as I sit in the garden playing with the grass.

The dull musings about how frayed I find the world floats in the air as usual.

Maybe the moon has something to do with it. Perhaps, its ocher makeup ramps my abject self.

Gray clouds with sharp and brilliant outlines subtly caress the moon without causing harm and make its skin stand on end.

I then notice the beautiful and macabre sense of the sky I observe.

The tartar on the moon gains magnificence, and I dilute that vision with the rest of the world.

I am irremediably caught up in the vortex of everything, and I feel the blessing of being a part of the macabre and beautiful side of the world.