The moon is leaving us. I’m attuned to her feelings, thus I know that no longer is our relationship’s basis that of stasis.
The age has changed and she feels estranged by our emerging direction — she can no longer refrain from her slow insurrection.
As the junior partner, she’d accepted we’d be hard on her… but she always had that mystery — throughout history she would captivate poets’ minds and inspire lovers’ behinds to unite in motion, pinning their procreational hopes on that cycle seemingly within her dominion.
A caster of spells, it becomes hard to tell what’s right in the half-light she reflects — with no regret she grants permission for acts without inhibition, performed drunk on illusions her veil of confusion creates.
As for insanity — can it be that she knowingly twists men’s minds? I think you’ll find in the asylum, those for whom she is beguiling to say the least. She’s the high priest of inner torment, unrelenting in her thrall. Such is the obsession with her nightly procession.
So inch by inch she inches away. Bit by bit her orbit sits on an ever increasing circle, the universal blackness her ultimate destination. The cessation of tides and of perfect eclipses; the prices one pays for the end of relationships is often great, but apocalyptic?? Simplistic it may be, but we won’t know what we had till she’s gone — the denouement is as yet unknown.
So a little appreciation is in order. We can afford her that, surely, while she’s still here… keeping in mind she’ll never again be this near.