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Infractus Luna
the moon,
that
ragged crone,
limps through
the garden,
through time
that never was
and never shall be.
what is it
that she sees?
her wizened gaze
is
fixed unflinchingly
on our
world’s
bloodshot
light
and
life
and
lunacy
our wars
and hates
and virginities:
the little innocences
the pale lies
that come out in the wash
and dry out in the grave.
oh, my friend,
if our tender scars
were as old as hers,
if youth
could linger
like a moth
or forgiveness
drift
as an albatross-
the bird I shot,
the bird I shot
-
blood,
the words I sold,
the lies we told,
unforgiven in the gloom:
but words spoken by children,
beneath the gaze of the moon.
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