Lonesome Is the Outpost of the Moon

Lonesome is the outpost of the moon,
Where, balanced on the balcony of night,
The scent of rogue gardenias in blossom
Immures the vibrant fella in a swoon.

The rustling robes of goddesses in motion,
The panpipe pants of satyrs in the glade;
These ghost across the mind of lost emotion
Like scudding sails upon an airless ocean.

There is no answer for the lean suspicion
Of how this queer conundrum came to pass:
As punishment for misdeeds uncommitted,
Or failure to complete a sky-high mission?

The dry and tearless eye burns in its socket,
A bright unfeeling disk among the stars;
There's no escape from exile in this desert
Without the aid of rescuer and rocket.