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So, the moon again pulls me out into the night.
Silhouette of palm fronds dances in the cool air.
Flying fox feasts on palm-nuts, a stone's-throw away.
Night vision video captures creature's intimate bliss.
Ignorant of my intentions, or perhaps trusting.
An approaching van startles my strange friend to flight.
I am alone with my moon again.
Her pearlescent beams bounce in my lens.
A shadow of the real vision;
Among the clouds, like nebulae, enshrouding its brightest star;
A speck of burnt out dust, hurtling about a pile of rotting mud.
And I still can't tell why.
Tell me, what do you think?
Gibbering mule-putty.
Back into my hole, out of your sight.
Nothing hurts more than pure moonlight.
Wake for your sun tomorrow then,
Like good little children.
Worship your bleached imperative, ever dwindling.
I however, shall wait again for my sanative moon.
This lust for isolation and the solace of none breaks me daily.
Only to repair once again under stars before dawn's light.
Though I love/hate the moon.
I am given just enough stay, as the moon wanes away.
She has heart enough to leave me this way.
I am her slave from sunset to dawn.
In the chill, early morn' the birdsongs, like petals, falling from the trees,
Send comfort and ease into my dearth, vagrant heart.
Before dawn this day, of full moon, I say once more...
Cal nichta, Selene!
Copyright © Ben Kross

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