Few and Far Between

Times are strange, I feel stranger. I'd blame it on the moon, except that I don't even know if it waxes or wanes, if it's yellow or orange or silver or purple, heck I haven't seen the moon in days, does it glare?

The grass bleeds silver, they attack the coconut trees (all rotten, all dead), and time seems to move in several different keys - it doesn't offend so much as whisper and we fall off edges only to regain space.

Sneakers sneak off to dance on wet grass and the twelve princesses were talking about you, no solitude, but noise doesn't have to be noisy, it can be pleasant, the howl of a dog against an impervious moon pockmarked with hope, clad in plaid (the moon, not the dog).

Not that I have to make anything clear because she asked me to leap off the edge of my understanding where things don't have to be real and I did.

I did.

So forgive me I seem off keen,
at the moment I'm few
and far between.