requiem for an unclouded night

I kamikaze in time with cicadas.
Blame it on the moon.

I write requiems for stars. Force everything to be finite. Embellish small actions into grief. Mourning the passing of a ciggerette, the emptying of a cup of tea.

I am spinning tragedies from the wide mass of the universe, as it spreads above me, and i below this. Savouring the moments between contact and separation, between together and blown apart.

Mimicing all the significant aspects of creation.
Dispersed between the poles of time and space.