Moon.

look

at the bulging moon!

It is a pot-bellied gravel stone

round and bloated

from stagnant romances,

floating enviously

across heavingly pregnant stars

expectant with the prayers

of the faithless.

the night is not young,

it is old and infertile,

its withering womb no longer

a bearer for life.

there is nothing wondrous about

stale clouds dunked

into a gelatinous black soup,

like croutons,

then flung, like tepid coffee

across the white shirts of men

with blue dots in their eyes,

dreaming of sun-lit opportunity

and the hope unseen at twilight.

the grey shirts of men

with no dots in their eyes

parade pulseless pubs

for sleepwalkers, drowning.

Liquor spills into cratered faces

and the moon too,

is drunk on sorrow.

It collides its crumbling head

to the black walls of night,

and flails its arms, in rage

not landing a single square punch

on the thinning shores of Earth,

nor on the grinning jaws of Heaven,

the man

dreamed up by tumbled sand

that did not know

why its castles crumbled.