Ode to the Moon (II)

You’re just a pockmarked orb, hung in the sky,

A fitting punishment for some old crime:

To light the world like some god’s glowing eye

When speckled with the stars’ abandoned grime.

The nights’re no longer dark: I cannot lie,

And scheming’s better left for another time;

O Moon, your dim night-light makes darkness fly,

Yet it still lurks, a ghostly pantomime.

Your half-light burns the air inside my lungs,

A crushing force, a tight clamp on my chest.

I’m hounded still, by myriad dreamy tongues

And in the nights I never take a rest.

How ironic it is: your punishment I feel.

Sleepless, I stand up on my windowsill.


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