The Moon

XVIII

Your skin is sick;

with flares, like some old doughy sun,

Your eyes are meek

and weak. Oh, where's the radiance?

I seek the beauty in your face

But woe!

For these fluorescent lights

Capture smiling mediocrity.

*

But, ah, that Moon

has pulled her tricks again.

She cast a net of beauty on my eyes

and all I see

is your skin like starlight cold,

your eyes like fires bold.

*

The moon is whoring with her tricks

Like childhood does with memories.

Ah, queen of lies! Deceitful petrifice!

Keep spinning mystery from light,

Keep spinning these absurd reflections.

Keep spinning beauty from the night.