Romance looks to the moon as an enticing goddess,
a figure of light, and a mysterious likeness,
but I know her for what she truly is;
she is devious,
an enchantress,
and a mistress,

she has robbed the sun of Gaia,
from the shoulders of Atlas,
as she takes what she claims, to leave my mind in blackness
her presence may be soothing and it may be calm,
but offers no more but struggle and war,
with the yawning in the west, the other side roars,
with the strength of a billion, maybe two, maybe more

for ideas, you may know, are far from secret,
and the thoughts of your days are, too, not sacred,
so enters the moon, the pale enchantress
to take what is mine, and what I created