Funny how years mute inadequacy,
While friends of faith hang by
despite carnage, laying careful stepping stones
across the molars of soul’s ineptitude.
Even at this late hour,
when the moon tips its liquid light on me, I howl,
Baring my wisdom, teeth rattling,
And your red rimmed eyes
turn wolfish and hunt me down.
aplaceforpoetry 
hauntingly beautiful ~
Thank you! Written at the tail end of a strange day which, I thought, had to be influenced by the moon??
Wow. Love.