Moth Harris Poems
#100 - Faction
It's the ghost in the mirror, the shadow in the corner of the room.
The cascading thoughts that drift through my mind so steadily.
It breaks and scrapes, takes away, again, again, another day.
It's where you are, what you've become, darkness.
It's a memory that rests in me, the forgotten, the fools.
Old weapons, just tools. A broken butter knife, made of plastic.
The sense of things that do not condence,
A mirror with no reflection, the blindness of night.
Light or dark has no preception of wrong or right.
Ocean waves lap blue paint
Smeared across the christian saint
All around the christian faith
Do you see the light
From the storm clouds above
Let the light strike you down
Oh, when the lightning strikes the ground
Blue paint splatters
Waiting for the next mask.