The moon hung, a noose ’round her neck
that arrived once a month
But until then
forced to wait, reflecting on her reflection on the calm sea
an obscure image of her own beauty,
Unable to see herself clearly,
Thinking herself unpretty.
The noose cut her neck, chunks of moonlight falling off
And there--a blood red moon, yet still dim and soft
compared to the sun.
There she hung-
Forever thinking she was unpretty, compared to the sun.
Share This Poem
This Poems Story
The moon compares her dim glow to the sun, thinking she can never compete with the sun's beauty.