Cruel Moon



Softly the moon slips between

the insiduous slats

of the venetian blind,

caressing your face while I watch,

illuminating each and every

line and imperfection,

revealing a terrible truth:

you are mortal.

The rosy fingers of dawn

are kinder.

They erase every trace

of age, of wear, of care

and you are forever twenty-five

in the morning.

Then I can believe this,

then, I do not hold you

just look and desire

until you open your eyes

and reach for me.

But when the moon shines

over your forehead,

your nose,

your lips,

your chin,

reading aloud all the years

you have seen,

making me want to shield you

from the inevitable,

I pull you closer, out of her light,

and whisper that you must not leave

before I do,

because I could not bear

the moonlight

on my own.

VC 20-12-12

Crossposted from my primary blog


Image from Google


3 responses »

  1. wow! vivid and yearning and melancholic and in the end tragically defiant. I loved the sustained imagery and the bittersweet mood throughout! A real moonlight sonata. I want to share this one on FB (for what it might be worth out there in the twilight)

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