The Moon
Oh, the morning's Godly devotions
Amid ungodly emotions
Walking the earth, dampness soothing the sole
Bound to it with affinity and closeness
Yet heaven bound, tearing away from this concrete shoe
The coffin-drumming clods of clay
Covered with verge and fields of hay
A thin covering at that
As if the bountiful bosom is clad with a slip of silk,
A wisp of decency
Oh, the throes of fleshly woes
The shudder and fever of the soul's great war
Obsession, passion, thrills after fashion
The lashing of a scaly tail at the end of this mortal coil
Toil, toil, the gravel pit of survival
For what, mere existence?
The passions collide, asteroid striking planet,
Barren wasteland exploding in pits and pocks,
Craters round, dry as bone
Dry as love, old as valleys
Soundlessly, airlessly, lovelessly grey
Should I leave or should I stay?
Passion swells as sea's mighty tide
Thrusting the shore, thrusting, subside
Yet the shore is not moved, not even an inch
And on the moon there is no thirst to be quenched
No moisture, no thrust
No place, no lust
No sound to awake
No ear to hear the gong
of time tick and take
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