You are this dark garden’s
host and, frantic through
night’s velvet wedding, where
language doesn’t sleep nor
dream but wakes always to
its daytime raving, you,
laughing gugubarra, meeting
the infant motion there invest it
with its strange sardonic essence—
we survived our fantasies and
dreams, we walked rattled by
the darkness of our hearts,
concocting vain chronologies,
decoding the night’s events,
but you insanely imitate our
other selves—the ones that
dance along abyss’s edge,
try shadows on for prisoner’s
clothes, laugh; reckless, broken,
godless, lonely, laugh, laugh, laugh.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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