What could be sillier than
a man bound to a bed of flowers
at his own request
so he could indulge
his love of the moon!
Such a “love” is effete,
incredibly self-absorbed,
akin to studying the
Neiman-Marcus
Christmas Catalogue
with hope in one’s heart.
Can the edges of life
be so buffed away, so polished
that they no longer wound?
Can life be so softened, so
insulated that it leaves no bruises?
Try living without anything
for a few minutes
for a few hours
for a few days
for a few lifetimes
And then look at the moon:
it will not have changed.
wow. wow. wow. this is totally amazing and definitely my fav of yours. I’d appreciate it if you took a look at one of my newly posted poems and tell me whatcha think.
scratch that, you already did.
I actually understood the underlying message this time around. So much more beautiful was the message.
Thanks, Drew. Most times I look at the full moon, I think of John Lyly’s play. There is a stunning encounter waiting for anyone in the very existence of that amazing orb, which is so prominent in literature.