Someone
Could have painted the sky
Mauve on this
Dismal night
In early December, and
Picked up the moon
And placed it
Where it should have been
Placed, or
Counted the stars,
One at a time,
One upon each finger.
I don’t even care if
I never see those stars, for
All stars mean to me
Is pain before my eyes,
Something unfathomable or
Unreachable,
Blinding me with their
Brightness.
Too hot to their touch,
Stabbing me with each and every point,
Stars have always
Lied to me
About night, day, love and war,
Somehow intermeshing,
In a succinct, demanding sort of demeanor.
I was often told the story of
The man-in the- moon,
Who never listened to
What the stars were trying to say,
But after all-
The moon is said to be made of green cheese,
And aren’t all of these tales about the moon
Just more lies,
And nobody can tell the truth of
What tomorrow may bring by
Looking up at the sky,
On a cold, dismal, night in
Early December-or moreover-
-Anytime of the year?