The moon is
sitting
in her *****
bathwater,
going cold,
always in
the cycle of
here and
not

why is it
that with
this beauty
I cannot
be happy?

Endless deserving subjects
It takes but one look around
Even in the smallest object
Poetry waits to be found

Yet we write with closed eyes
Failing to unveil a thing
Rhyming about our own minds
With a narcissistic ring