the shadows beneath my eyes
are tattoos,
given to me by the moon,
as she blessed me,
for all the hours I spent staring at her, wide awake
so she gave me my half moons,
so others would know me for a moon gazer,
locked away,
with just two panes for my sorry company
and a lifetime between the glass and the sky
sometimes I see her as a mother,
the moon,
as she gazes upon our sleeping figures
from her lofty pines and stars
making dark things invisible
making us feel safe, if she cannot
make us safe.
Winter 2017
YOU ARE READING
Unbroken • Poetry
Poetryeven the leaves will not break beneath her touch "All art is quite useless." - Oscar Wilde
