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 might come of it?
‘Haps a dusty nothing…

A love less used, no NASA-glove
Needed to turn it over.

Previous Post:
Poetry: Mount Melanchol

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