Harlequin Moon
On clear nights, if you wish
to toast to the man in the moon
with a glass of fine wine,
you will find no smile on his face.
He laughs no more,
barely conceals his tears
beneath his chalk-white make-up.
For him, pain and ecstasy
were mere shadow puppets
of a sense of happiness
which took a long time dying.
After the magic and mystery,
love, like inspiration,
hurried to the end.
He wishes not that pain be his alone,
no longer his sole possession.
Each nerve of his that winces,
he bequeaths to every one.
the rest of his life
now perches up there,
turned harlequin.
for all the world to see.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
