A spider lives on the moon.
She spins a web between the stars,
Weaving lines of silk against a dark, summer sky,
Like spirals of beautiful things cast around the world,
To catch the lost souls left wandering through the night.
A spider lives on the moon,
And I think she’s lonely;
Lonely up there between worlds,
Holding up the universe
In the absence of suns.
I wish I could be the moon,
Or even just a star,
To be encased in her soft touch,
And either of us would have to be alone.
Light filters in,
Like soft thorns on her skin.
She slips it through her fingers,
Imagining it a ribbon
Winding round her hand
So she can bring down the sky and it’s stars.
She listens to the wind
And imagines feathers on her back,
To fly up with the ravens
And greet the moon as one.
She recites all her spells,
And summons monsters she shouldn’t know-
Ones with red eyes-
From the dusk,
But the night was never hers.
My world is made of paper,
A drop of ink for a soul,
An ocean lies within my heart;
Waves of words to make me whole.
Oh, I long to talk to some old lover’s ghost,
To learn a little bit of what it’s like to fly with angels,
So in love you think you see Heaven.
Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice-
So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference-
Hatred mistook for passion;
Guilt mistook for kindness.
Oh, how I ache steal another lover’s dreams,
And be visited by anything than our long-dead love,
But even with you buried, I find myself haunted.
And you know I cannot lie,
You were right,
I am nothing without you.
But I suppose I should find comfort in knowing you are now also nothing without me.
Perhaps that is why you visit me so-
To beg me to release you from this brick prison.
Oh, how you must know there is no place for you outside these walls.
And once I and this house are gone, there will be no one left for you to taunt.
You’d be a fool to think Heaven and I are close.
I may be one Hell of an angel,
But don’t let these white wings fool you-
I am but a dove-feathered raven
Flying far from grace.
We’re picking stitches out of the floor…
Are normal people ever this bored?
To the point of self-destruction
In order to feel some direction?
We’re catching comas to
Taking pills when we’re
Of course we feel the sting of promises
Beneath our skin,
We’re suns just waiting to happen;
Hearts just waiting to break.
Or have you forgotten the power of now?
Four little teacups sit on the wall,
And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.
They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,
And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.
They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,
To the gentle laps of blue water,
And wave hello to those who walk past.
They wait for the sun to disappear
Behind the pier;
To depart down the path,
To four little houses sitting in a row.
I’m brooding over a mug
Of black coffee at 4am,
Trying to warm my cold bones
And broken heart…
I drink green tea
After my morning yoga;
I’m about as happy as it gets.
Unfortunately mountains poses
Don’t sell quite as well
As moonlight and despair.
She’s cursed me,
This mind of mine,
And now we’re creeping through nightmares
I used to dream of gold in my bed at night,
But now I just follow her down.
Bury the hatchet,
Or better yet burn it
And scatter the ashes so far across the sea
We stand no chance of digging it up.
‘Cause I know you,
You’ll get bored and start looking.
At least this way
We can only stand on the beach
And reminisce in what
It used to be.