Moon
Since sun set, hostility whispered
after the
moon had uttered words
through her pale
crescent mouth.
Her slither
of slight lemon peel
shavings afloat
on water, not gin,
is a mocked
up plan view of a grin,
side on,
askant and distant skewed.
Cross
shopfronts slam iron cages
from words
she passes down ages
while all
faithful turn her pages.
We, pressing
our slimming fingers
against fishbowl
display cases,
see cakes
decaying and cannot last,
for she is
waxing ere she’s waning;
they will
not see this month out.
As time long
lingers, she’s gazing
far across her
moonlit pastel seas,
denies she’s
delighting in disease
where all
her just wars are raging.
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