Moon: ‘punch in the stomach makes sons into daughters’ – es

 

let’s kill the moon
or shoot it down,
and take a ride
far from this town.
we,
we won’t be,
we won’t be chasing
after it’s tail.
we locked its light
up in the jail,
who could really ever tell,
when all its life,
its ups-and-downs,
its friendly smiles,
and fucking frowns,
it bore the veil
of one who’d tried,
whose failures only satisfied
the sun who’d always
teased the moon,
his black eyes always
shown too soon,
before the dark
of nighttimes’ dread,
before good children
had gone to bed
to dream sweet dreams
of better days
they’d somehow, maybe
passed that phase
from waning hopes
of bullies free
to gibbous men
who let us be,
though sunrise came to
drown them out,
so with a tiny
dying shout,
they shot the moon
and killed it dead,
as all its white was
turning red,
when once-good children
were no more,
the moonlit light
danced from the shore,
and bid adieu
til nighttimes’ end
til God might give it
life again.

 

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