The Moon feels naught in futile circling

far off in bland acceptance of our plight;

while in that feeble light we half-blind stray

to situations shunned in light of day.

Her beams afford us sight attenuate

allowing indiscretions - thought and deed

and poets then, that cold dead orb invest

with subtle attributes no whit possessed.

As folly nightl...

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I am a coiled spring

in the celestial timepiece,

of the earth, the sun, the moon.

I am a servant of your rotation.

In a silent sky, black as onyx,

I sleep in peace,

but as the clock strikes full moon,

I ache with the restlessness

of a tortured man.

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