cellar door scar

cellar door scar
A night, weighed down into existing,
by hazel clouds without tears,
turning the moon into a nail-clipping at their behest,
There, the illumine finger of the night,
moon-drop engaged shining ring finger,
the sun lay beneath the hazel cloud asleep,
the cushion of oceans abound,
yet the rising was in the wake, a sleepless pair
of eyes reddened in fraught remedy for life,
It was only the taste of ink, thrown into the sun’s mouth
by the frayed-coat poet as the fountain of his pen
flailed, impotent and frowning at the brightening sky.
The smell of an old yellow crackling notebook then,
And he remembered to look down
The boy’s eyes told stories undone and unheard.
The sun, looking through lashes and bleary eyes saw the scar
under the belly of his hazel cloud,
and then the one torn into the asphalt below.
The poet escaped to his cellar door, leaving another scar through
his frayed coat, leaving time alone on driftwood,
yet the poem was now a wondrous spider spilled like ink on paper
no longer crackling but faking apart.
The boy’s eyes still shone and the poet was proud of his scar, looking through same lashes and bleary eyes that the sun did.