beneath the phantom moon

the air is still
the stardust of dream
floats in the cold
a particulate without
any particular flavor
crystals suspended
as atoms move slower
a case of pressure
moving independent of
thermodynamic law

the nib of the quill
skates across the
frozen blob of ink
skittering to carve
a deep furrow into
the nebulous ebon ice
to scratch over vellum
leaving scant figments
to shimmer over your
ocular nervousness

i long to sleep beneath
a pile of heavy blankets
to feel warmth once more
to elimante the stagnancy
permeating the hollowshade
of the phantom moon
hanging pregnant over
a room held in stasis
where poetry languishes
in hushed boredom overlooking
the strange malaise of
this solitary confinement

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