fickle moon

I'm not done for what's glorious...

Yeah, you sent a heart-rover
    Into cloud-cover:

I’m curious…
      What comes now?
  I’d scream of hurtful-how,
            But that’d be spurious.

              I’m not done for what’s glorious,
        Though shadows o’ercome us—
    The dark’s not so
        Ours as it is moonshine-onerous:

              Were you to consider
  E’erything that’s so-quiet, white-wondrous—
      What could come of it?
‘Haps a dusty nothing…

    ‘Pared to my love, no NASA-glove
Needed to turn it over.

Previous Post:
    Poetry: Mount Melanchol

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