The dead versions of ourselves
Dance on our warm breath in winter
We watch the moon blossom and
Wither into darkness
Remaining most transfixed by that
First white sliver after the eclipse
We attach dreams to our identity
As if to call forth the person
We wish to become not
Who we are and therefore our
Faces grow red with shame and
Humility as they are reborn
Touched by sunlight, moonlight
And the soft glow of mourning that
Precedes the newest inception

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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