the calm before

the moon is hiding his face
from the shame of the night
like my words cannot seem to
stretch from my throat
like a slingshot
in the hands of a soul
without direction.

i stare at the sky
as empty as the pulp of
my mind
and i wonder if there were ever such things
like the Northern Lights
or the cry of a heartbreak

if there were ever miracles
in the horizons of my life

the moon hides his grace
from the cold of my whispers
like the way i
hide from the sun
and its stark reality.