and I could not find you the moon
though I see her every night
looking back at me through glass
crying stars into the dark
if words would work I’d ask her why
but words mean less to giants
I wonder what she thinks
looking down on us to death
condemned to witness every fault and flame
silent and lonely
undersung after the sun
almost beyond utility
a truth-knowing god without hands
left to spectate our decline into the clay from which we came
a little closer every day
a matter of patience
she waits with little else to do
sick of pulling tides and glowing
watch us dance
watch us spinning out of reason
through the veils of vice and virtue
making tombs of our tomorrows
at night
judgement day on the horizon
she would laugh if she could
if the moon had a mouth.
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