Whispers to the Moon.

He whispered to the moon like his mother. Is it chaos that has consumed our past? He clenched a jaw set like steel as upward his eyes gazed on the night sun’s reflection. Bones were twisted like knots of conflict, like slithering snakes or vicarious vines, his form was man and more and he bore the eyes of a primal time. The ferns churned with the ghosts of a breeze passing through the dark forest of climbing trees,  the sound of a thousand carnivorous insects and the rustling of leaves leaving moving shadows that danced upon the dirt. His shirt was worn with weary travels like his mind that wandered like a roving beast. The cool air of night saturated the skin made the hair stick upon its ends and plead it’s plight that another’s warm breath was being breathed like warm wind. To see the smoke-like billow of steamy air crawl out from under the shadow of a trees branch like some wisp of wicked fog would unsettle any man, but not he who sought it out.

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