Everyone knows the difference
between prose and poetry
is the difference between
words and song.
I say it's the difference between 
birds and the Moon.

Birds can but follows their own agenda
meaning neither good nor ill.
The mysterious Moon will lift the tides
we catalogue as though we know-
until overwhelmed by the deep.

I fear those who support megatonnes of rock,
their Moon of fact, forget our companion
silently distances herself from our grip
day by day, our claim on her not so profound 
as to hold her tight evermore. 

I fear the world left to go it alone
no companion to mythologize
will follow a dominant agenda
whistling through the failing light
no lunatic distractions in play.