How many moons did I really miss?
The big, the bright, the bold, the blue -
the daytime crescent
or a midnight swan?
Did I count them all
on my two hands?
Or was the same moon sat there
all along? Enticing and bewitching those
that dared to take the time away
from all the mundane earthly stuff;
the daily bluff, the soulless bleed.
What if every single moon was new?
And those that basked beneath
the moonshine never light
knew how it's luminosity,
shaped the eye.
If I chased it round the earth
would I see it slowly turn?
Or would I turn myself
to lunacy?