The moon shone resplendent, 

made a neon sign 

of their youth, yet

their eyes were sightless,

their tries fightless;

they thought the moon 

was slovenly, and

as for doom, a

taste wouldn't do:

they'd have to indulge, 

for in their blood

races gluttony.

 

Perhaps they were born

an oxymoron, diffident

daffodils, question marks

to the world, their kin,

themselves. 

 

So, how to assuage despair

when they only know

to draw breath

for a reluctant

raison d'être?