Starved of Moonbeams by Gregory Ross

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Starved of Moonbeams

​Starved of moonbeams
at the pinnacle
of a modern depression,
I don’t care
how many broken plates
it takes to achieve
the perfect exhaustion.
 
Darkness coughs up
the toxic allure
of old velvet curtains,
and I’m fortunate enough
to know that fortune lies
in a lack thereof,
a hole in your pocket
the size of eternity
leading out onto streets
flooded with carmine light,
where the music of starved cats
and smoke-like wisdom
abide by the echoes and footsteps
of a few dawn-kites
still kicked about
by the stubborn breath of Time.

​

Gregory Ross is No One in its most collective sense, a merry mondsucher from the banks of the Ramapo River who's had the good fortune to see a few poems in print but the better fortune to never stop writing once he began. In fact, the bulk of his work has been published anonymously, on cardboard boxes, to be read, or not, by a few random souls on their way to the recycling plant. Currently working on a novel that's begun to grow indistinguishable from reality.

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