Sorrow for the Moon


I always knew I didn't
love the moon.
How could you love a thief?

The wind conceals
her stolen light,
pressing dark and dormant clouds
across her tired face, her cratered mouth,
and leaves me listless, lost at night.

Avoiding her through rattled sleep,
in and out of haunted dreams,
I cry for her, I almost see
how sad and wintry a life she leads.

I see she is much like a woman.

A thing to be admired,
revered,
sought after for her silence.

An object of man's greed and lust,
followed by untamed desire
as far above us as she sits
on seats of jilted stars, of contained fire
we still, we go, we visit her
and often, quietly, lose the things we own.

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