Welcome to another volume of Over the Moon, a growing collection of literature and talented deviants! I encourage you to  and  these pieces and authors and take a look through their galleries! 

no resolutionsstill singing with a stolen voice.
still falling in love with strangers.
too many after-midnights:
                                       manufacturing weather.
                                       pretending not to understand
the languages of hunger.
as if the flapping birds you
call your hands don't thrum
with excess and
joy alike.
as if you are not forever lost: in these patterns.
                                       :thumb783161608: A Garland of Words
I wreathed a garland of my words
I penned a dragon’s sibilant voice
And it winked an obsidian eye at me
I scrawled a sagely snowy owl
And it lifted my vision to the skies
For a poet’s words are living things
I transcribed runes from a stone
And was transported to bygone times
I scribbled down a blood-red rose
And was graced with secret beauty
Words are truth-shadows dancing  
I inked a resplendent phoenix
And I was warmed by wisdom’s fire
I wrote the rumbling of waves crashing
And they swallowed all my tears
Meshed syllables weave a secret net
I composed a great black wolf
And it brought me wild freedom
I scribed a somber raven
And it led the way to higher realms
It is no mistake that we must spell our words
Because words are enchantments
Soft as mist, yet harder than diamond
For they spring from a greater archetype
And the Word will live forever
©All original work copyright Edward D Cates 2019
EasyThese days
my prince in shining armor
is a manic-pixie-dream-girl
who shows up on my doorstep
reeking of patchouli
and old leather
and maybe something dank
she has a free seat in her van
and stardust in her hands
coffee on her lips
and I am
smitten
with the curves of liberation
chasing willow breezes
under the swirl
of the night sky
weightless
.
she leaves me
after a month
for blackberry brambles
and psychedelic punch
and someone
who still dreams
but
I keep the van
live off of ground cherries
and chestnuts
on the banks
of the loneliest river
I can find
I watch the currents
carry away tomorrow
and finally drink my fill
of peace Valued TimeAre you lonely, feeling blue?
Craving closeness? I am too.
Days may pass that feel like years
Falling fast like rushing tears
Must I wait another moon?
Will there be a someday soon?
Wish that I could hold your hand
Feel you grasp and understand
Trust is just a two-way street
Glad we had the chance to meet
Life is short, but there's still hope
I'll be here to help you cope
Write you clever words and rhymes
Share my rare and valued time
Gifts to lift your spirits high
See that smile reach your eyes
Hear the sound of celebration
proof of your appreciation
Feel your heart grow warm and strong
Know deep down that you belong
Screens between us fall away
Reaching out so I can say
You are precious, rare and pure
Light might fade but love endures
Close your eyes, imagine mine
Thank you for your valued time
~~~~~~ :thumb782838320:
Double yolkyou are
such an unusual power
make me tremble
from eighty miles away
...
in the deep quiet
of the night
I wander aimlessly
through people's park
chewing on frost
on the glassy edge
of the day
I dream helplessly
of rain and breathing
and sweet burden on my chest
in the dusty languor
of late afternoon
I lie motionlessly
wrapped in light
the colour of double yolk
and there is no rainfall
no silver scattered on my breast
just the souless anchor
of cold water bottle
tying me down to my wait
...
but you are
such an unusual power
make the sun grow inside me
such an unusual power
make me endlessly
bite and twist my lips
in a reluctant smile
the only power
I could and will
ever need. a study of the impermanence of things.1. me
   a note on your hand. the point of a pen pressed
   against your skin; almost sharp, almost painful.
   the feeling of much said in haste, much said in
   few words. the knowledge that this is something
   you should not forget. glistening black ink,
   stark and fresh for now, but fading in time.
2. you
   running your hand along the spines of library books.
   the excitement of opening a new book. the softness
   of yellow, well-worn pages beneath your fingertips.
   the satisfaction of closing it for the last time.
   the quiet sadness that it was never yours to keep. 
   the stories that linger with you after you are gone. works-with-handshammer chisel
he works-with-hands
out here in the shaded sun
the wood is persuaded into strange shapes
titanic catcalls from the forest
a tree falls within earshot
no mystery here