Contributor: Aspen Duscha

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The moon was in my tankard,
It draped my room in pale silvery light.
It was a stone as smooth as butter,
Because Its craters were wore down by my coffee.
I stirred it,
it dissolved as though it were a sugar cube.
It was smoother then the finest cream,
And sweet as honey and as sticky too.
It had a hint of cherry,
But It was minty and cool.
It left me breathless,
I longed for more and more.
I plucked the stars like berries,
And they lay in my basket like pearls.
I drew from them savoury wine,
I stirred the nectar of heaven into a dreamy soup.
The sour stars I set aside,
Until I wanted some Borscht.
I boiled the sour stars,
They were just what my Borscht needed,
The stars added the sour to the pool of sweet.
I thanked the smoky night sky,
And wrapped it around my neck.
It was cloak of silk,
It was cold to touch but warm to wear.
The sun looked down and shrouded itself with a guard of clouds,
Becoming a celestial sphere of honey dotted with cotton.


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