Crumbs of the Moon

Is it a haze, a blur or a veil?

Haze has the air of a beautiful dream. The sort where you recall only the feeling. The occasional switch of the slide in the kinetoscope of life, reverie, life.

Like worlds passing through a window as opposed to you passing through the world. Soaring past the bokeh of living street lights.

Green, orange, red, orange. Sometimes blinding, sometimes dull, desaturated shrines of stone and crumbs of the moon lining your lower lid.

Dawn to dusk spent drifting through the moonlit sandstorm, crumbling to follow the current of the wind.

A lingering blink pleading to fulfil its loyal duty

but beaten

back

by

life.