The Moon
Late evening.
I have put aside a book
and prefer to wander
the freedom of a darkened room,
drift through a window
into a framed sky
where a bright moon writes
itself across the pages
of passing clouds.
It's an easy drift,
letting go like a book dropping
from hands when loosened
by sleep, lifting up weightless
into somewhere else.
For the moment I like it here -
the quiet, the way everything
gently knits together,
the play of images cast
upon the walls of my room.
I have spent too much
of my life here, always
finding it hard to tell where
my mind ends and where
the world begins.
Childhood still sleepwalks
the passageways looking
for a way out. Old age
wanders the vast territories
of this familiar room.
I have become the moon,
writing myself across
the pages of what is passing.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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