the attic

I was there upon a four poster there.
Mind tousled I came to bear some thoughts from the past amid a dash of influenza.
And then I came to see in baggage the memories of truncated souvenirs.
The war years.
High moon I said high moon lighted high moon eye to my moon.
Far beyond the blue mist enveloped lawn the blanketed night comes on.
The champagne is dead and gone.
The forest around sensitive sound forest primeval.
Through the panes cloud buttermilk war remains and twisted cross war refrains lunatic so high moon I said high moon lighted high moon eye to my moon.
Your age will most probably carry away the letters enveloped in carrion.
Vague unpleasantries of the war.
May your sons progenitorship of the state haphazardly help him to carry on.
God send your son safe home to you.
High Moon.
Youre eye to my moon.