Moonstruck
I am waxing poetic
And hope I’m not straining
Credulity saying
My talent’s not waning.
It may be eclipsed by
Those poets ascendant
Whose words are celestial,
Deep and resplendent.
Yet tides keep on turning
And orbits expanding,
While moonbeams drift down,
Oh, so daintily landing.
The galaxy’s bursting
With work that amazes
And room for all poets
In all of their phases.
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