You whisper to the darkness; wishful truths
believing that the moon is there for you
believing night can bring eternal youth
believing that the clotted blood is dew
In fall the apple’s core is full of rot,
the worm consumes it from within.
Your fruit’s a vessel for what once was hot,
a victim for your cigarettes and gin.
And when your mirror’s draped in velvet cloth
to hide insomnia lies that morning tells,
You crave for darkness, you are the moth
who settled, waiting for a midnight spell.