There are those who pray to the moon!
Does one pray to the moon as
an orbiting rock held in place by gravity,
or does one pray to the light reflected by it?
Or, to the gravitational pull the moon exerts
on the ocean or on our hearts?
That is, does prayer of this kind happen
when the night is moonless, black, and lonely,
or not?
I would guess not.
But the question persists:
what is it that imbues the moon
with its quasi-divine qualities?
Is it merely the faith of the Seeker,
the Nightwalker, or the Primalist?
Or is it that the moon is,
essentially, a mirror
of our own light,
our own darkness,
our own loneliness and
our own divinity?
Certainly, it summons us,
on a deep, soul level,
such as it draws up water
from many fathoms bellow.
And so, it goes...

In all of this,
the questions linger,
the darkness abides,
the mystery takes hold.

The night plunges around me
like heavy water.
Cold and dark solitude overwhelms
my world, as a withering undertow
that won't let go.
But I still can see
the bright brilliance
in the air, far on high, where you live.
And I see you untethered,
dancing and flitting
among the jewels of heaven!
Your play, wonder and levity
attract me and I take hope.
I aspire to ascend above
the callous quagmire of despair,
the torrent of our tragic world,
to see your charming face!
The stars shine in your eyes and
your luminous heart
shows me the way!
With you I can rise above this
shadowy grave
to become a soul
of iridescent splendor!

What does she seek there in the dark?
Something whispers to her from that shadowy ark!
Murmurings as gossamer thread spin their tale.
She rises from her bed, as if coaxed by nightingale.
The mystery and the moonlight weave a dream
she cannot seem to flee.
The ponderous old chest disturbed her sleep,
so, she kindles candle flame to illuminate the key.
Outside her window, the moaning wind blows.
The ancient house utters unsettling creaks
and mournful groans!
All her courage is summoned for a search in
the pitch-black room.
Will her discovery bode well or prefigure the tomb?
The dimly cast light, the howling wind, the
enigmatic gossamer voice within...

"Good night."
I need to find the darkness...and silence...
and the vacuum of inertia.
Because if I don't,
I won't be able to sleep.
Indeed, then...
all that space,
all that distance,
all that emptiness
will consume me.
And I shall never shine
again.

Poison ingested,
defenses engaged,
struggle to survive,
turmoil in its wake.
After all that,
I refuse to be among
the walking dead.
I will rise again.