Painted Horizon
I tried writing a poem tonight about the moon's brilliance. It was huge, as it was pale; hypnotic in its rise. The sun's reflection made me think of my own depression because I could see the moon's geography and its mountainous expanses. The darker shades of grey highlighted an elevation untouched by man's wishes. I had a sense of my own biology and its fragility. Like fine China placed in boxes void of upward pointing arrows, my warranty became null and void because of packaging and stacked in wrong directions. The molecular dust, mixed with rust, the ore and iron shavings, I could feel moonlight settle in my veins and I yearned to be a part of the universal order of detachment and attraction. Wishing ocean waves would wash over me as I fought the pull against my toes from lunar confiscation. A sea's toll, the sand that disappears from underfoot, admission into the deep. In my being, I felt all the knowledge Britannica had to offer, and then every answer fizzled away with evaporative tenacity and again I was left wondering about my place in this world, when a few seconds before; I swore, I was sure. The poem ended up being scrapped because no arrangement of words would've compared to witnessing the moon being painted on a deserted horizon and seeing His paintbrush come to rest on an easel.
No, my words wouldn't have been equal.
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