Poetry

A night of one thousand moons 
and I am dancing 
in dark. 
 
Circa. 
My half-script was left 
with you, under a scrap. 
 
Now I am not 
finding any punctuations 
in the aerie. 
 
At unknown heights 
wake me up in blue depths 
when sun does not rise. 
 
Stones placed on hyacinth 
will not bury the scent. 
I might bring another red spike.