Counterfeit Grin

Tickling tune drifting up against wildly wheeling arms
A feeling, an emotion akin to smoke
Ill colored pluckings of my guitar swirling in a cloud
Churned by the slowly turning ceiling fan

Sun singing sweet monotonous melodies
To someone else somewhere else
4 AM felonies of fear and doubt
Staring at the ceiling while everyone else is either asleep or out

Sun gone I hum so long
Rising to bare feet at the thunderous snap
Fingers speaking hushes across cheap strings
Churned tune swirling lost against the rainless storm

Lightning as dry as these lips of mine
Cracking behind the night sky’s eye hugging lids
The black handed shrouds covering the staring moon
Blushing gold for a moonless moment

There was nothing but a black blanket of golden blossoms
And then the moon looked at me
Swoll as the burning in the back of my throat
and full of myopic passion

The night sky blinked
And with that otherworldly eye
Silenced the song leaking from my hands

I wanted to scream
I wanted to breathe
I wanted to be

Moon staring down at me
I dropped my guitar
And fell to my knees
Gasping at the fierce touch of some burning fire

Longing to sleep

and let the night sky’s murderous eye of my desire
Be nothing more than a dream

Falling backwards
Black

…

She frowned at the muffled thud, her hands leaving the half poured cup of orange juice, no pulp, on the counter.  Leaning into the living room she saw him lying on the floor against the wall, staring at the overturned chair and the broken strings on his guitar.  His face was pale, hair matted to forehead in a cold sweat.

“Are you alright honey?”

Breathing hard, he glanced at her and then at the motionless ceiling fan above him.  He took a deep breath, smiled and nodded.