The tides of my time
Turned over themselves
Again and again
As the trees of thought
Rotted in the night of my mind,
And I was lost and without
The will to raise my wings,
Blind to the fact
That the sun might rise again,

Only she who wore
Those moonlight eyes
Washed with the blue of the sea
Could sharpen the horizon
And expose its potential
In her milky twilight glow,

For the moon hung lazily
By some rusted hook in the sky
Wavering with a subtle chill
From the quiet wisps of evening wind,

The moon was silent and seeing,
Overlooking the stillness of it all,
Perched atop some invisible stand
Cemented in the stars,
Untouchable by hands
Far from greatness,

Forever strung from the heavens
By some apparatus of fishing line,
The moon listened to my sorrows
And cradled them gently
So as not to damage them,
And let me cry away
The carvings of indecency
I had etched into the loose
Fibers of my being,

She was my moon,
Grandly lit in the ink of my mind,
So desperately trying to light her own,
And she called me her angel
Whose feathers were always ruffled,
Soaked wet with the weight of our dusks,
But it seemed to me
Her brilliance never flickered or dimmed,
Never blurred or shrugged
Until the day she sighed,
And rolled her eyes
And cut my wings away.