Somebody once asked me,
what is the moon?
Does it feel our pain? Does
it observe stories as one
expects it to? I wish I’d
known the answer, I wish
I’d known the truth.

Perhaps it’s filled with woe
which preys upon the 
heart, perhaps it’s patron
of darkness and things that
vanish with light.

What is the moon? Perhaps
its the cry of lovers who 
mourn with solicitous night,
perhaps it’s the scent of
betrayal and of blossoms
stripped to bloodless white.

Gently, does the sky disclose
before whispers from the
dead intrude, “the moon
who you adore has skeletons
in the closet too,

and though dubious be these
clouds, let not mind defer
from seeing through.”

 

Photo credits: Unsplash

Posted on ‘Karin’s Challenge’ @ Real Toads

& Posted on ‘Open Link Night’ @ dVerse Pub