Even the moon
We talk
of truth with a few select words,
Ring the
promise of change for a bare fortune,
Climb passages
of faded out purest light
Where escape
is just a seconded paradise.
If you play
it right you might reap something,
But the
day is rich in substance born of scorn,
Of starlit
flesh and a creeping, crawling like
You bring
upon your back. December’s woes
Sigh under
embers amid cracking ice floes,
But you’ll
walk out upon it, this dead lake.
The deep
freeze reflects your sympathies,
Each dark
realm echoes your inner turmoil.
Invitations
of empathy turn your heart black.
It’s an
unresolved lesson, never fully heeded,
But I’ve
remembered the decades walking back
And see how
nothing changes. Even the moon.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, September 29, 2020
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