What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (9)

9

The dark sky descents and devours me,
the crescent moon smiles back helplessly -
trapped together we break bread,
my hands tremble and my feet droop endlessly back down.

The fever rings all around and reeks and wrecks,
my clammy hands disintegrate,
my life washes over the bay sky sunset,
the paints of gods breathe all around.

The invitation stands,
people everywhere find reason to dance
but generally tend to run home crying more often that not.
A pretty face fights off tears and sinks sourly into a pair of similarly soft, clammy hands;
the dim evening falls all around me,
filling in the cracks and surrounding me,
solidifying my solidarity -
separating me from the world yet again.

The sky scoffs and awakens,
a sunrise painting gold and purple surrounds me
as I try to forget the sting and stench
of rising to heaven and falling back down;
I have stared all that is good in the eye and slapped it its face,
I am so desperately human.