but don’t you shut the windows
and pull the blinds,
for there is more to the moon
than mere craters.
the dull moon
sleekly creeping
behind the sober clouds
who seem as if they’ve been
forced to depart the arms of their lovers.
when the night brings the gone alive
and the lost get their hope revived,
the moon lets out a weak smile
for she’s been having sleepless nights,
breaking apart from full
to a half,
to a quarter, and
to nothing at all
she grows back everyday
and falls apart more the next.
tired of being known as the poet’s muse
and a lover’s sigh
the eye witness of love sparks
and a frozen tear,
ask her about the gruesome crimes
a beacon of hope and guide
and underneath where demons hide.
miserable of being known
as the shimmery ornament,
witches held rituals under.
as the goddess who gives,
when she barely owns herself,
herself that she can’t even keep.
so far in,
maybe you have guessed
it’s not only the moon which i have addressed
she sees your drowsy eyes,
flooded with regrets
but didn’t she break from a full,
to a half,
to a quarter, and nothing at all
to be finally known as the,
Goddess of life?