Grey glass bowl and sparkling words
Under a red moon and star stitches
Things look grim and, sweetheart,
For fear even, they saddened it.
The grey glass bowl
Knows nothing about the red moon
Only sometimes from the sparkling words,
That are noticeable, since they glow
Like strings of the star stitches
The sparkling words
Are religion to the grey glass bowl
The way they blow out weak gleams
They stole from star stitches
And air of wonder from the red moon.
Above, sweetheart,
Those are frictions of things and their stories
Inside of human limits, inside of the burden
Our solar system has
Inside of wrongs and rights,
Limitations, they all are
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