Our Dearest Friend



though the night feels still, it is quite  

contrary. for when the sun lies in its  

daily grave, the moon reaches towards

us again; our minds being most disturbed.



dashing beside the stars upon the black,

our secrets and contemplations—at dawn

faded from heat and blinded by the greater

light --- is at dusk instead weighed down

on our frame like beast of burden, and lingers  

within in darkness as she covers us with a soft glare.



in sun we have many duties, but in moon

we have only one; to sleep--- and that we can  

never, for we cannot breathe well enough to  

do so. our murmurs are heavy, and we suffocate.



the moon looks down upon our feebleness like King,

yet there is no judgment in her presence. she is welcomed

company: she listens, and feels, yet never condemns---

making for many a recurring friend. her pale glow shines

white upon every skin, no matter how amber. her face is

security, and so like sinners we confess: we confess and

we shout, and we cry with wolf, and we scream with the

crickets, and we croak with the toads, and alas we sigh!  

and only when we’re lifted do we slumber.



we sleep, we dream, and we forget as morning rays

burn into our haze filled brains. our convent descends,

our limbs stir, but our minds remain nocturnal, awaiting

its next interactions with our dearest friend.