I look to the stars

I look to the stars

As many have,

The moon, a teardrop

Begs forgiveness

For its chastisement

Of the sea

Pulling it to and fro

I see no comfort in any of it.

There is a hollow in the space

Between myth and reality

Where trees scrape a living

Out of a pretence

They are more than their appearance

In tall stories.

Spindly dead hands

Plucked clean of leaves

Grope blindly for heaven

Shrinking back in disappointment

Falling in silence

Failing to climb out of the woods

Finding solace

In the changing seasons

The flight of darkness.

As they remain grounded,

Rooted in pragmatism,

I tinker with the image

Of a waning moon.

I imagine its restless charge

Its impotent rage

The sadness of its melting face

As every day it is eclipsed

By a rampant sun

Stealing the limelight

Pirating its treasures

Plundering its gifts

Wiping the sky clean

Of its gothic pallor.

Dusting off bilious clouds

With a soft brush

Pulled from a tin bucket

Dripping in rainbows

Painting them afresh

From the bottom up,

Every day.