No one really talks about
the morning moon.
Its crescent heavy with the
weight of dawn,
ready to toss aside the
expectations of nighttime work:
the guiding-home of weary travelers,
the pedestrian awe for the faithless.
No reason to dwell on
the small aches and pains
of humanity, the petty and
the wicked and the insignificant.
The world settles and
the moon watches, silently
taking in the secrets and the
untruths and the words that cannot be
said under the harsh and wild sun.
We awaken, and we weep,
always for ourselves.
The Wandering Introvert 