Of who you are
And what I am
And who we might become

You only tell the moon
When she is full
That she's herself again

but discard hope,
all ye who
fail to see the grace
In underfinished crescents

In half thought poems
In broken plates
in streets with shattered concrete,

in ashes after flames
in charcoaled cakes

In half built building cities
and teary tissues on the floor