I am writing this moment into a poem
I assure you the moment was perfect in life
Perfect- and poetic which was what lead me into temptation and it to it’s death.
Its short life began when I turned out the light
And saw, spilling, molten, across my pillow
A puddle of silver moon
Its beauty stunned me, enticed me to let it live- let it be.
To trust in its existence
And my own
Enough for it to be enough
That I knew that it was there, and that it was beautiful.
No need to take it down onto the list of ingenuous conquered by my pen
No need to bottle up the evidence
To prove to a bench a critical jurymen
That silver beauty does exist in the dark.
My ego now commits the crime.
Beauty, taken and spoiled by documentation as I search the room
For a pencil and paper
And return to the bed with these in hand
To scribble blindly about magic
Searching for the right words to tell them all what I can see
Articulated all around me in perfect coherent reality.
The perfect silence is ruined by the whispering and cracking
Of the pencil lead which breaks in the dark
I'm slaying this moment with a this poem
I've stolen its purity and its virtue in the dark
It limps away, still beautiful, but tainted forever
And I assure you, as I remember what it was like in its youth
It was not worth it.