Poetry

Nibbling at a piece of moon 
I lost the zero line 
of my violence 
mapping the lone 
jungle. 
 
The waning light 
flaunting the peaks 
for docking 
the missile 
in dark. 
 
The body of water, 
prior to the tempest, 
will invite the brown 
creator to pull 
the ropes. 
 
The past reappears, 
shows presence. 
I search word anchors 
to reach 
buoyancy.