He shoots for moon (poetry)

He shoots for moon where feet don’t leave ground
He’s overturning forest where we won’t hear sound
Maybe he’s holy but evidence can never be found


Well it’s not just police who are corrupt
They say La Palma will erupt
I’ve been running round in circles but I haven’t any luck


When will you return to sky?
When cold winter night leaves a frosty veil beneath earth’s eye?
Do angels sigh?
When hope is quaking, do you reply?
Is this goodbye?


I dug up your sorry’s from the bottom of a well.
I hung them to dry in sunlight.
During high noon when crust is tight.


How can it be called failure if you weren’t delivered all the facts?
How can you say you love me, when you seem to have two backs?
How can hope carry forward when courage is what the whole world lacks?


The sky is filled with pattern
Little beating hearts
Everything we imagine
Brushstrokes of color
Icy comets breaking free from Saturn
Looking back a lantern
Couldn’t stop expansion
If there’s hope we’ll never mention
Lying with intention
Buried neath the earth
Tension tight like a cavern


Lay down your metric
The sun is electric
No need for trick
Trust truth is thick


It’s all for science
It’s called compliance


He thinks I’m safe
Prying eyes that never see
These white walls never protected me


Arguing with shadow-self
Or maybe forget him
On my dusty shelf
I’m beside myself
Taking the high step
The long road
Uneasy depth
Don’t have care left
Am I right
Or is this hell?

He’s terrible
By the book
Unrepairable


A courtesy disconnect
This life not best


I live in a world of illusions
We live in a sickness system
Trust betrayal


I don’t feel safe from corporations
Wrongful allegations
Erasing obligations


You don’t know what it’s like to be Allan
Running ’round always yellin’
Dying on the street and all from famine
Being number one but just in heaven

What has happened to his words?
Did I deliver, kiss or curse?


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You have been ghosted
Your soul eroded
Now dark unfolded


I was without form
The great potential
But nothing more


I have a hundred personalities, I’ve lived a million lives
You are attacking me with words that feel like knives

© Delia Ross. 2021 / @poeeternal

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