moon mystical

Sweat clams up my facial pores, drowning my being in a deluge of fast-playing age,

like a sweaty-sibling’s palm, it taunts me, blocks my immediate vision and blurs out

the splayed-out fingers on its periphery.

Its a winter midnight but, even so, I fling off my summer-togged duvet, and sit up –

abruptly; willing my flailing arms, and tissue-skinned hands, to take aim in the general

direction of a window clasp.

I long for exposure – to rinse off the encroaching years with the coldness of a spongy-

slush-filled moon. But, unwise as it might be to waste even this moment, I pause … to

consider: Is the moon just what’s left of a hot-burning star, with its fingers lopped off?


Copyright owned by Jay Cool, February 2019

Inspiration stolen from line 7: ‘I’m sweating, yet it’s cold’, in the poem ‘A Cell’, by Johnny (poem-a-day@poets.org).

Image courtesy of Pixabay.com (creative commons licensed).


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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