Photo by Loren Chasse
The halo around the moon
is the son of madness
who follows a cold light
who sits inside shadows
haunted by sounds —
a footstep,
a figure,
a face…
who’s fallen for his own
reflection,
has nothing but himself
and that should be enough
whose insides are a passageway
elsewhere, empty and dark
as caves,
cold canvas of rock,
maze out of madness or
pathway to self.
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Categories: Poetry
Bill Pearse 
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