Advice Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

If the moon had lips,
that swelled with words,
bulging from its fissures.
Poignant wisdom I am sure,
would emanate from her mouth.

How I dare not to sway,
adhere to her convictions,
coquet at ease with the stars
regardless of all reason.

For at dusk one smelts away doused in evening prayer,
lingering around with unfurled feathers,
drawn of Medusa's blood.

Bellerophon achieved many great deed,
articulated with desire.
Uniquely he stood on Pegasus's chin,
wafting towards the ground.

From a small town in Oregon,
tucked at its foothill,
where snowflakes blanket the hill.
To a magical souk in Marrakesh,
captivating seductive air.

As I journey this burgeoning life,
rooted in euphonious strife,
stumble I may,
to the garden of eden,
riding an amble maiden.