Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. The Burden Jean-Léon Gérôme, La Vérité sortant du puits armée de son martinet pour châtier l'humanité, 1896 To crave I’m meant to— and secretly, he wants that too. To be desired, to be needed. Though once it is in his hands, he panics. is overwhelmed, when I am the one balancing society and a home. My longing is an inconvenience, however. And all it is for is to be accepted, to feel safe to be candid, unfiltered, to fall apart and not be chary to succumb to the task. a deepened presence that makes it okay to sleep a presence that leads in trust rather than power. rather than control Because there is no softness in power, and they both yearn for tenderness— one to give and the other to receive; even this is without an owner When he steadied, she found peace, and in her peace, he found his own. Held. Seen. Cherished. Unashamed. Protected. Heard. When there were no more butterflies and he— unassumingly, humbly, unpretentiously— asked her to surrender. Not for his sake, but her own. She did. And here she simply was. He cared not for performance. Loudness— but he did for holding a space where her femininity was preserved and untouched. Inviolable. Chaste. He cares so deeply for building something with the only person it makes sense to do so with, that validation from the outside holds no significance, his essence is unyielding in the face of prejudice, and there is no hunger to reign. His ego remains intact in the absence of either. Satiated by her purity and righteousness— which he never mistakes for meekness. Here he is strong enough for the both of them. He does not flinch. is not threatened by her confidence, or her awareness of her worth. Rather than trying to challenge it, he does it all to meet the standard. Rooted by the goodness he knows lies within her, and radiates loud enough to brighten a room. Stern in resolve and bearing, all the while soft in his gaze toward her. built of discipline and fairness, a steadfast guardian and guide. Still. Clear. Himself. She knows what her body is asking of her, and under the darkness of the skies, as does he— even when words lacked. But I was told I was unlovable. I am unlovable, and in this feminine rage there is a war behind my eyes. I am unlovable, and trust is fictitious, at least when pride is involved to feed his lust for a throne. My father always prided himself on raising a Valkyrie over an angel anyway. — A.M. Sención 05.31.2025 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more The Devil's angel "Men who feel love / never lack a good heart, / so I wished my soul bound to his. " 2024 Who She Is "She calls it passion / when it’s merely madness." 10.02.2024 How Life Loves "...meant to be soft / in a world that moves me with calloused hands." 2024

"Men who feel love / never lack a good heart, / so I wished my soul bound to his." 2024 The Devil's angel Roberto Ferri, Come Veleno, 2023 Men who feel love never lack a good heart, so I wished my soul bound to his. Such tortuous longing and the fire of yearning; how, then, this did I miss? It was clear as day that the obvious way was to carry his heir in my womb. So, I nursed his wounds, torn flesh by better men, and in the water, our love there did bloom. He’s of honest hearts, but only to mine; devotion never misplaced. I traced all the scars; the beautiful art, the terrors of all that he’s faced. Honey and pine on a gleaming night, transgressions of thine untold. What question is this? From the start of time, came I from thy perfect mold. Fear not, love of mine, for I’ll give you the sky, these walls no longer barren. This shall be known; Man and Woman together reach beyond the heavens. He made me his wife, and I thought I knew bliss, to belong to a man such as he. But I bore him a son and I knew I was wrong when, in the boy’s eyes, I saw the sea. Too many reasons, go far beyond love, why I need a cruel man such as this. Men who feel love never lack a good heart, so I wished my soul bound to his. — A.M. Sención 2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more How Life Loves "...meant to be soft / in a world that moves me with calloused hands." 2024 A Poem In Disdain “My chaos. /My midnight storm.” 11.2024 Cognizance "So, behind closed doors, my mother’s doll still sits on linen." 2024

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. A Poem In Disdain John William Waterhouse, Lamia,1905 Never had I met someone just as eclectic Someone who’s pull was too strong Such a deadly storm in which the only safe for me was its eye. Never someone so strikingly, hauntingly, devastatingly beautiful. My chaos. My midnight storm. Someone whose presence alone was as electrifying as it was protective. An absolute dream of a man. The anguish in me is almost as palpable as my love for him, which resides and unapologetically grips firmly upon my heart. The heart that only, and will ever only, beat for him. The prospect of such a cruel outcome shows a sardonic smile every now and then, constricting my throat and filling my mouth with the taste of regret and trepidation. Metallic and pungent. That too seems palpable. And it’s slimy. Vile and oh simply terrifying. Absolute and all-consuming fear. All it truly takes is a graze— the passing of a hand followed by a feeling that scorches up my palm and sears my very being with desire. Such a visceral reaction to something so so innocent. Yet, my muscles go taut at the mere thought. He’s a powerful source. I cannot bear it; never seeing those moss agates again. It’s too much, making me belligerent in my own world. He, the Devil. He who owns my soul. Yet, he refuses to recognize such. For that, I cannot forgive myself. And shall spend the rest of my days offering my sacrifice. Wounded, raw, and skinned. But proudly belonging to him. Be it in his knowledge or not. Forgive me. Have this be a sin and I shall remain a sinner All I ask, is you forgive me. For I will never ever deny my need. — A.M. Sención 11.2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Who She Is "She calls it passion / when it’s merely madness." 10.02.2024 Inescapable Daydream “Nevertheless, you are mine.” 2021 Peaches “Sweeter than the peach / that blooms at the halt of rejuvenating springs,” 2021

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. The Boy on the Bus (31 Westbound) Robert Ladbrooke, Wood Scene, 1806 He knows not something to compare. His cries would be the same where he stands as they would be in years yet to unfold. And his mother’s face does not change in day or night. — A.M. Sención 02.2025 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Poems of February 2025 "I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill." -B Cigarettes and Stale Beer (Camden Market) "...it makes me want to stay—" 02.2025 Oxford Street "...the uncertainty is welcome, / the chasm in my heart, a savory pain." 02.2025

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. Time Herbert James Draper, The Gates of Dawn, 1900 How to begin a concept with no beginning or end. A concept that simply is. Whether one will accept it or not is a narrative subject exclusively to customization. A man-made creation like luck or the Devil. Except this one is real—and all we have. I wish not the life of another, for the music would not sound the same, the books would not call to me, and these words would not stumble so poorly. The sky would be a bit bleaker, and the duck on the curbside would have meant to me what the sand is to the stars. So, see, I yearn not for the life of another. Not that life. The stability—or security, though not to be mistaken to go hand in hand— brought forth by that life and the decisions it’s taken; that is what is desired. So fiercely it is incapacitating, and consequently, stagnating. But do not mistake my dreadfully imperfect words; I wish not to live a life that’s not my own. ‘But it is so easy. Find your vocation!’ What to do when it all is? Time is not enough to perfect yourself in it all. Yet, if you dip your toes in all the absurdities it has to offer, in all that kick starts your brain even remotely, just for a blink, then you remain a dilettante. A dabbler, a fake. Fraudulent, even. A cold and grimy room. The same one I am also uncomfortable in upon becoming a virtuoso only at the expense of sacrificing all other knowledge and devoting myself to the profession I chose out of a hat. Now try too little and you’re a coward. There is too much I enjoy. so much to experiment with, to learn, to inevitably mess up so colossally I become disgraceful, to appreciate and cherish. This rock has a stupendously overwhelming amount to offer. How, sensibly, am I to choose one over the other? Thoughtlessly or not, should I not choose just one, then I remain a cheat. If there is one thing time has made us all, even if imperceptibly so, is selfish. True to myself, but selfish, nonetheless. Because I want it all. I want to speak of it all, to share it all, bond with it all. And not just the words I string together to call a book. A husband and a confidant, a companion, and a father. Naturally, a family, and this career—which, Time, o Time, has forced me to pursue— and enough friendship to make me dizzy. None of this can I deny; I am as selfish as they come. And there is only one to blame, though it is not I. I thought perhaps it was youth, the one haunted by this Time. But it’s simply the same merciful ghost that guides tired souls over. It’s the one the nescient— from pride, guilt, or fear—equal in measure— run away from, and the wise accept with open arms. The only cord you cannot cut. Time, fortunately or unfortunately is entirely up to oneself, is all. It heals, only to turn around and do the exact opposite. First, it’s anxiety: When are you having children? When do you graduate? When are you moving away? To turn into bitter regret: Why didn’t you accept? Why didn’t you visit? Why didn’t you try? The only constant is the sand filling the glass bulbs. Time passed or the one we eagerly, or contrarily, very dreadfully, anticipate. To my unpleasant surprise, my time appears to be everyone else’s, and theirs mine. What best to do with this incessant thing? To love, it seems. To admire and value the way the skies darken only to shine again. Or the lizard’s dance at your doorstep, a greeting after a long day of work. The way she asked if you were alright. What a pesky friend, that Time. The one I’ve no choice but to keep around. — A.M. Sención 2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Inescapable Daydream “Nevertheless, you are mine.” 2021 Wish It Wouldn't Bleed "Should it hurt more to grieve if the lover was fair?" 12.26.2024 Peaches “Sweeter than the peach / that blooms at the halt of rejuvenating springs,” 2021

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. At The Mercy Of Love Laurence Koe, Idyll,1908-1911 Lying bare next to you makes my mind surge like the fire in my veins. Perhaps it’s the way you study my eyes, or how your gaze flicks over my lips, now chapped, dry, like the inside of my mouth; a symptom that comes as well with sweaty palms or a racing pulse and it’s entirely your fault. After all this time. I grow impatient, even sensitive. Mousy. Timid. Vehemently nervous. Ardently willing. Yet, it’s not so much an anxious, unnerved feeling like that of butterflies. In conttrast, I believe that to be far closer to a warning than the opposing. Rather than that of a love bug. It’s your entire being warning you of concealed trouble. Instead, I feel relief. Safety in your eyes. The only true fear that possesses me is that of having you no longer. Hanging to every bit of hope, even faith, I tread on convincing myself that your hands will want me more tomorrow than they do today. But Lying bare next to you does as much. Overt, vulnerable, plain and clear. Transmitting something I can’t yet fully distinguish; your eyes making all of me a puddle. Perhaps, it is simply love by its purest form. Anyhow, it works my head too quickly for me to understand; too quickly for me to keep up with. All I truly understand is that I want you— for as long as my heart beats; far beyond into His deathless death. — A.M. Sención 2023 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more I Can “…when all the difference lies in ink and paper.” 2024 The Devil's angel "Men who feel love / never lack a good heart, / so I wished my soul bound to his. " 2024 Exchange Between Heathen And Believer "As do I." 11.2024

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. Wish It Wouldn't Bleed Carlton Alfred Smith, Recalling the Past, 1888 But I wish not to bleed anymore. And if it makes me stronger, then what? I don’t want the lesson in strength; the wisdom, or the need to be bigger. I am not big. Only dying, over something that has no place for grief. Not when it stripped me of everything I am, not the way it was. Should it hurt more to grieve if the lover was fair? This was not so. Why, then, are there tears of gold? Why, still, do I wake at midnight to a minor key, a haunting melody, that does little to lull me back to sleep. Time will heal. But it will always feel like shattered glass on his birthday— when he looked at me, and made me believe I knew love. That scar will always be tender. To grieve the hurt that will die; please, I only wish it wouldn’t bleed. — A.M. Sención 12.26.2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Soulmate “I was made of a piece of you, / and you of me.” 2023 Time "I wish not the life of another," 2024 Paraíso "Tu paraíso privado." 01.15.2022

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. Nostalgia's Blade René Peyrol, Bathers in the Forest, 1887 Will this constant state of nostalgia ever detach itself from me? Detoxifying and freeing. I fear it will only worsen from here He will remember what it was like to sit in a classroom, learning a subject entirely unconnected to Him, won’t even count. He will remember the late night pulling into the driveway after a rendezvous with our friends. And He’ll remember what it was like to love. I fear he will not leave, only gather the ammunition he needs to make my heart bleed each time I hear that song. — A.M. Sención 10.04.2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Paraíso "Tu paraíso privado." 01.15.2022 Time "I wish not the life of another," 2024 Who She Is "She calls it passion / when it’s merely madness." 10.02.2024

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. Same Nature (Hampstead Heath) The Great Day of His Wrath, John Martin, 1851-1853 In the midst of a burning desire for isolation. Long plains that see nothing but hilltops, an eerie silence; we are still incomplete. Our nature was not nurtured in empty rooms. Cared for in loneliness. There, we do not burgeon. From impatience, a trip which should have lasted longer, a coffee stained mug we can’t get rid of, births this incessant Need. Yet still, in busy hands we return— with an uncertain heart, and more questions than we began with. Listen now to my string. We are not meant to be alone. Not in this time, or the next. — A.M. Sención 02.2025 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Poems of February 2025 "I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill." -B Braveheart (Montague Street) “...siempre demasiado lejos de mí.” 04.07.2025 The Boy on the Bus (31 Westbound) "He knows not / something to compare." 02.2025

Welcome to Moon Prose This is where I share my poetry— each piece is a reflection of my love for the human experience and the boundless depths of creativity. At Moon Prose, I offer writing commissions, crafting personalized poems for any occasion; each commissioned piece is tailored to your vision, designed to capture and express your unique story. Moon Prose is a space for dreamers, romantics, and those who find inspiration the littlest things. Cadence Charles Haigh Wood, Gossip Is it the cadence? The tone, perhaps. Can you read the tone in pixelated words? Whatever it is, I’ve got to figure this out. How to make people believe inauthenticity escapes me? How to make them believe you actually do care? Because I do. But then, why do I feel like they see me as something artificial? Am I not who I think I am? Useless, useless question, Because, in the end, they still ask how I am. — A.M. Sención 2024 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more A Poem In Disdain “My chaos. /My midnight storm.” 11.2024 How Life Loves "...meant to be soft / in a world that moves me with calloused hands." 2024 Cognizance "So, behind closed doors, my mother’s doll still sits on linen." 2024