Everything illuminated under a waning moon
that waxes nothing resembling poetry and thus nothing
resembling nuance. As sudden shudder of wind clasps
on back of unsuspecting the ritual feels weighted by
misery that cannot be beguiled back. For the setting
sun did not leave much to desire, and the pupils
went to rest behind the shade of fleshy lids
as the moon rose its midnight serenade
dropped on deaf ears. This swan song of sparkling
injustice was only heard by the few, the quiet sort
of night people who resembled owls in their wide
eyed miserable stares but who could not know who
it was who made the stink in the first place. Thus
it goes that nighttime ends and whines of moon
are left to its phases, but the people want a picture
book setting when all they get is a text they cannot
decipher, and all they get is a song they tune right out
and the sons and daughters are less well for it,
they are down right sick for it, for it is negligence
of celestial songs that got us to burning down
a rainforest, forgetting humanity were caretakers
of earth. Everything illuminated under a waning moon,
but everyone is sleeping, so no one is caring to be
awake.
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