I mourn the moon,
always high in the sky
hung like lights
forgotten so soon
stared from afar
red dripped acrylic traced in its outline
taught in schools
quoted in poems and literature
metaphorically stunted
admired and painted
but never understood.

I mourn the moon,
for those who see
do not gaze with no judgement
do always ask for more
do never look close enough
do not befriend the moon
only stare as if
it were
not truly
there.

I mourn the moon,
the crescent moon
that all see broken
as part of a whole
splintered off
separate and incomplete
never stopping
never pausing
to question
if the moon
in shadow
simply likes the
dark.

I mourn the moon,
the beauty
that even I
do not befriend
the mooning orb
that never comes close enough
hanging just off
titled away
axis parched and pursed
afraid to come close
be scorned for
the light.