The moon is a traitor.
His love is scarce.
He’s not loyal like the sun.
His greetings are not courteous as her’s,
nor lasting.
He abandons us in our hour of need,
leaving us with feeble sparks of stars,
to look after us.
I guess the sight of us nightly bores him
after a while.
It drains his lurid luminance,
so he hides
In sight.
Looking elsewhere,
contemplating in the somber threads of space,
like a monk in isolation.
being grateful,
he's not a human.
But it’s in the gloom
Where wickedness sits on her throne
Spreading her vile arms,
to touch the dead
and the living.
Shall we excuse the moon then,
for looking elsewhere!
Will the sun bear,
what he witnesses nightly?
It’s in the gloom
Where virtue lays in sepulcher,
gazing at
the dingy vacancy of souls,
ready to die.
shall we excuse the moon then,
for looking elsewhere!