Mood To The Moon Poem by James McLain

One woman completes him.
Leaving her deceased body.
Has earned him her smile.
Ash of this industry,
of long bone fine china.
Water flows in through her open wounds.
And on her naked flesh is the scroll.
She came for the end.
He came for the present.
She died before him,
and dies from wounds of white snakes.
Respect to her once full paps.
Both lay flat and empty of milk.
She came through the garden alone.
In the attic in case of this end is a box.
When others come.
Doing what was done is hard again.
In her body the one closed petal.
Never to open the gate again.
When it happened is snapped.
From the throat beneath her lips.
Weeping comes the odor of the poppy flower.
Which is bleeding is pungent sweet, it is deep.
There is no sadness asking is it not to very odd.
From her mood to the moon we dare to stare.
From her pink hood of the exposed yellow bone.
She has been used by many of this type.
Interrupted, he pulls out the handcuff key.
And is quickly back through the open window.
Again closed without making a sound.
Leaving behind the lot of his.
Exceptional amount of tears.