The moon seemed strange that night;
even in depths of sky, washed out, deep,
sickly mundane, dreary, threadbare
You sigh, it's nothing new,
the clasp of a pathetic idolized painting
It all
continuously fades into background noise.

A distant light cuts through the window
A plane, maybe, branching off into night
seen once to be forgotten, perhaps a detail forged by your mind—
This reality you lust for through skewed vision,
you, the puppeteer,
are twisting your only perception.

The constant buzzing will only get louder
you choose to ignore the aches as it shrieks
It's panting, drooling, devouring you inside out
teaching you the coppery taste of blood—
Mundanity can't be the answer, right?

Perhaps it is in human nature
to aimlessly claw towards the clouds
Bright, unrealistic,
encaptivating,
obedient, fulfilling the hunger of need,
it can be what you will it,
far more enticing than any night sky

So you heave your broken body along,
even far after your bones have died.
After all,
everything was already fractured to begin with.

Ah, well...

Close the curtains,
you were once scared of the dark
The moon, tired, beaten to death
still gawked at, its lifeless body, cold
You observe its scars, the wounds caving deep,
breathing shallow and bitter,
leave it to rest
and dance around in a hypnotic, bittersweet picture

For yes, you and the moon are one and the same;
All of it,
everything,
entirely corpse.