A perfect moon
for chaos,
I become the face
of an observer,
a skirmish
still raining ash,
but a tick in time—
I yearn for yesterday:
butterflies and squeaky gates
that turn cows
with unnerving ricochets
of change, a trap
to escape as I become
the face
of a smoking moon.
drycrikjournal 
I now call it a hell fire moon.
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Good enough!
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