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.