when i nibbled at the sugar laced moon

so let's suppose the moon laid down last night on a bed of roses as the streetlamps chimed the hours, would the broken down words still matter? short sharp pricks of love, as shadows spread on worn down cobbles where tiny wild flowers fill up the spaces. the clouds set sail earlier in the day, white puffy clouds, tripping away and i wish i knew slang in flemish as i searched for vintage postcards, to say, "i am glad i was here today".