Beneath The Moon Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Dire deeds cringe at the wood’s dark end,
slither and die at the corners of leafy lips.
I hesitate to say, although I must,
this particular crossing is of no value
but nevertheless of true importance.

It is here one meets what is
without cloaks of misrepresentation,
here where hazy tell tale customs
casts spells at the omnipotent sun.

Never before has time fraught you
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all mind perception
to a sole fickle skin,
akin for the touch of no other.

Scavenging scholars of no intent
bleed across all pillared temples of no avail,
there is no peace in purple words alone,
nor in the arrangement of flowers or sorts.

The blue element of understanding
have more white keys than clouds,
the state of origin is all a birthed mortal
needs to breathe within that union
where wild fowls learn to fly.

Stoic impudence is laudable
in nights of no other further ado.
The tall night bears neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.

Voices float like white banks of clouds
with any further objection.

I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken abc of impossible dreams,
the mad glimpses of belonging
that flashes between my bedroom poles,
the taut wood of cerulean skin
with all the moon faces shifting below.

The wind is the air you shift
as your intentions move you
across fast highways and wasteland
not even your darkest hour can recollect.

Slow is the intention purpose care
that follows the fast map of old,
steeped in the path of tilting wings,
intensed by the rare sound of time,
the fair share of all old bold leaps
into the all old broken lane of sense.