a hook of a moon
hanging low
burying itself into the dark soil of night ploughing methodically
churning the folds of time unsympathetically
despondent
weary
oblivious to the passing seeds
of thought
laboured over.
Should I expect more
from the ruts it rolls,
perhaps growth of understanding
or a crop of acknowledgment
for my wonderment of it?
Or is it simply a tool
to capture imaginations
of a fool who secretly belives
I have an intimate bond
with its silent magnificence,
perhaps wishing it looks at me
like a brother who shares this moment.