One small step for man
Clashing silver moon rings
against the dark, turns
her pale obverse towards the dawn
and sinks into night’s pocket;
a lucky coin flipped
to always land on the bright
side then slipped away
to be retrieved when hope
wants inspiration
her reflection proceeds apace
many phases across one face,
tho the clock melts tomorrow
the moon remains oblivious to the fortunes
she unmakes with her one-sided
arguments that cannot hear correction
her fragility is her shield
that shines in borrowed light
her robe the perfect protection
from the consequential evidence
manifested in the sunlight
of those she tramples in her flight.
for she doesn’t care to know
her defining shadow shape
that she keeps safe from sight
and she cannot be touched
by any sorrow but her own
I have always loved the suggestions of the moon, and slept beneath its cold cover, to awake to its cold eye, so beautiful yet so complicated. I think my intention wasn't to deal as harshly with her as I have, but there is always the other side.....
the soft side of
the waning moon,
revealed in a vague earth-shine
of reflected reputation--
like some courtesan
enjoying the king's favor
in darkened chambers, there,
somewhere behind the harsh
and heady light of duty--
not needing all the glory,
just the wrested stolen moment
of almost...