The Moon

Oh, the morning's Godly devotions Amid ungodly emotions Walking the earth, dampness soothing the sole Bound to it with affinity and closeness Yet heaven bound, tearing away from this concrete shoe The coffin-drumming clods of clay Covered with verge and fields of hay A thin covering at that As if the bountiful bosom is clad with a slip of silk, A wisp of decency Oh, the throes of fleshly woes The shudder and fever of the soul's great war Obsession, passion, thrills after fashion The lashing of a scaly tail at the end of this mortal coil Toil, toil, the gravel pit of survival For what, mere existence? The passions collide, asteroid striking planet, Barren wasteland exploding in pits and pocks, Craters round, dry as bone Dry as love, old as valleys Soundlessly, airlessly, lovelessly grey Should I leave or should I stay? Passion swells as sea's mighty tide Thrusting the shore, thrusting, subside Yet the shore is not moved, not even an inch And on the moon there is no thirst to be quenched No moisture, no thrust No place, no lust No sound to awake No ear to hear the gong of time tick and take