The Moon feels naught in futile circling

far off in bland acceptance of our plight;

while in that feeble light we half-blind stray

to situations shunned in light of day.

 

Her beams afford us sight attenuate

allowing indiscretions - thought and deed

and poets then, that cold dead orb invest

with subtle attributes no whit possessed.

 

As folly nightly blooms we pollinate

with light sufficient to achieve our aim.

When shadow blends with shadow - sweet, soft-edged

there is some small remit of human pain.

 

So cold pocked Moon your moody cycle run

your mute imposture serving by default.

The tide of men’s affairs flows ever on

till that far day when you - and we - are gone.