Denied, a Poets Night

My affliction with the moon so saturates With mindful apparition that can be, Sublunary to the measurement it creates Phenomenal is the intrigue, extraordinary! I countenance with patience on this night, The crescent’s intuition is with haste Now luminary, the stupor blocks the light, To opaque further still, Oh what a waste! I stumble through the gaze of deep lament Forbidden by the natural depths, disguise, As if more agonized, this wet cement, Substance known to man as patience-wise. While absence of my being there surrounds The way the new moon has to be prepared, For anything mechanical, this compounds A means of being invisible or scared. Horizons’ shallow lower, the moon has gone Refined to constant thought, tomorrows plan, It seems without the charm this was withdrawn And nothing worse than waiting with this man. It seems the erect hope with utmost pain, Can future writes describe the poet, thee Whose patience has been worn to once again. Notorious, that it wasn’t poetry.