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

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. Anatomy Of A Lover Mark Arian, Lovers, 1976 Those eyes are my own personal sea; blue and briny water compressing around me, calming my worries while calling me in deeper. But I am not afraid, not of these eyes, not of these oceans. For I am not afraid to drown in them, not afraid of letting the water fill my lungs. Because I know I will see these eyes again in my next life. Whatever comes thereafter. Those hands are my mountains. Lifting me higher than ever, until the thinning air makes my head spin. A single-fingered stroke across the expanse of my thigh is all it would take for my desire to climb the summit becomes unbearable. Like my seas, I am not afraid to give in. No, not these mountains—I won’t anticipate the fall. That back is my sky; broad and mighty, there for me to reach for, grazing my fingers along its clouds. Gracious, and those lips, my favorite rose. They’re the endlessness of the Cosmos that tempt you and envelop you like nothing before. Addictive, and explosive like the death of a star. The brown locks are my personal favorites. They’re my own galaxy filaments I get to pull at as if I were responsible for it all; his Maker Divine. Silky and thick, I’ll tug and caress, carrying him into a slumber where he’ll dream of my face and the taste of my lips. The anatomy of my lover is simple, though perhaps it not be so after prudent consideration. He is my Universe. Where his eyes are both my waters and my stars, his palms are my forests and temple to be lost in, his neck my Great Wall for scattered kisses. Like bare feet on Terra firma is my head on his chest. Like hearing the Earth’s breath and the thump of its life. Inside me, we are one. There, I lose myself. I’ll admit, I become vulnerable, but is this not inevitable? For inside me, we are souls inseparable. I am his, pridefully so. Willingly do I surrender, entangled in our nakedness, fearless, at the mercy of each other’s hearts. Soon, his face will find my unveiled breasts, and there he’ll lie, with dreams of tender whispers. In the darkest of nights and brightest days, I’ll surrender. Surrender to the anatomy of my lover. Until there is nothing again. Stillness—no shapes or forms, gases or planets, matter or energy. — A.M. Sención 2021 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more Wish It Wouldn't Bleed "Should it hurt more to grieve if the lover was fair?" 12.26.2024 Where The Sky Ends "In this way, / should the moon be unattainable, then you shall fall upon a star." 12.2024 Cadence “…in the end, they still ask how I am.” 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. Cognizance William Adolphe Bouguereau, Nature's fan - Girl With Child, 1881 What is loss of innocence? Realizing your grandfather isn’t as wise as you thought he was? Or the sky not as blue as it used to be? Was it finding a reason to check Halloween treats? The slug’s curious squirming; Or the wonder, now ameliorated, upon Man’s reenactment. Maybe the flickering light at the end of the bar, and the way it made you feel when he left. Forget the light; and when you’ve turned big and bad to old eyes which once held a warmth that shamed the sun? And it’s wrong if you decide to hang on to it, But you’re damned if you don’t; then it’s: “Who do you think you are?” So, behind closed doors, my mother’s doll still sits on linen. — A.M. Sención 2024 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 Anatomy Of A Lover “Surrender / to the anatomy of my lover.” 2021 The Devil's angel "Men who feel love / never lack a good heart, / so I wished my soul bound to his. " 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. Peaches Francesco Hayez, Il bacio, 1859 Sweeter than the peach that blooms at the halt of rejuvenating springs and into the advent of golden summers. None can compare to what I have; not the melodies the rufous nightingale may carry or the scintillating bursts of dawn as the sun wakes. To consider it subjective that you are for me, and I for you, is illogical; for this is plainly and distinctly fact, on display for anyone to see for themselves. Fear threatens this with each new day, and naturally the Insecurity who is a fit companion to it; fears of familiarizing within ourselves too much, or contrarily, knowing too little. Letting apprehension make us sick for days that see no end. Doubting abilities that satisfy our souls, each other, our minds. But must we let that be stronger than this? This of which I speak so proudly of. Like the welcoming tree under which we sit, offering shade in July’s unforgiving heat; where no one can find us and the grass is greener everywhere while the open skies sing. Or perhaps it is like those peaches. Our love: the sweetest peach, the mellifluous nightingale, the vast and most blissful plains scattered in wild indigos, lupines, and Queen Anne’s lace. Yes, this Love. Merciless, Chaotic, and so irresistibly Desirous. — A.M. Sención 2021 This writing is my original work. Do not reproduce without permission. Explore more At The Mercy Of Love “The only true fear that possesses me is / that of having you no longer.” 2023 Exchange Between Heathen And Believer "As do I." 11.2024 Anatomy Of A Lover “Surrender / to the anatomy of my lover.” 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. Braveheart (Montague Street) Norman Rockwell, Marriage License, 1955 Un momento inesperado, e inoportuno tal vez, también. Igual, no dejo de pensar en él. No lo conozco, y a la vez Ha vivido más que esta vida conmigo Nos conocimos por el río En la parada de un tren En el estreno de la sinfonía Española. No le gustó. Y siempre demasiado lejos de mí. Pero en el silencio que dominó esas noches, sorprendentemente delicado, encontramos un sanctuario de algo que no entiendo del todo. Lo que sí entendí fueron las cartas no escritas, las flores, y la forma en que él quedó perfectamente grabado en mi memoria. ¿Será su corazón igual que el mío? Me dijo que si podía amar, Y le creí. Le creo. Y me pregunto por qué me lo habrá corregido tan firmemente. Como si hubiese pensado lo contrario en algún otro momento. Lo presentí al tocar su piel, y no supe cómo descifrarlo. Pero me intriga, Y me atrevo a decir que lo quiero más por eso. No me lo quiere decir, y se lo entiendo. Pero con ternura es en la única forma en que se tratar, y ansiosamente espero que sea suficiente para atar mi corazón al de el. — A.M. Sención 04.07.2025 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 Same Nature (Hampstead Heath) "We are not meant to be alone." 02.2025 Primrose Hill "Dismay— / and truly being alone." 02.2025

"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. There was painful desire, 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, a sanctuary of creative expression and timeless inspiration. As a passionate writer and artist, I specialize in crafting custom poetry and personalized writing commissions that bring your stories to life. Rooted in literary artistry, my work draws from a deep love of art, music, and the written word. "Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul." ― W. Whitman See more

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. Gallery