Phases of the Moon

The Phases of the Moon

The phases of the moon, like faces,
Like feelings; now full, now smiling,
Now frowning down upon mankind
Like a great God of silver light
And inconstancy; an apt
Deity for a world such as this

Crumpled, ancient board-game; I tire
Of its ever-changing rules,
And the futility of participation when
There is neither beginning nor ending,
No hope of winning, no passing ‘Go’.

Do not collect two hundred pounds
Of my flesh on payday, I gave
All I have at the very beginning,
And now all that is left are my dreams.
Dreaming somewhere far away
As I stare up at the silver moon
And wonder if he stares back,
This great God of ineffectuality
And hopelessness, presiding over
The eternal game of life.

We are born alone, placed on the board
Under the watchful eye of the moon.
His eyes follow us as we play the game
Alone. And die alone, as he looks on unmoving,
Unmoved.

He seems to watch me now, and laugh,
But as I look closer, reality seeps in.
Those eyes, seeming once so piercing –
Mere craters in a cold sphere of rock
Circling the game like a vulture, ready
To pick the bones of poor, discarded players.
And I see now that there is no God;
There is only the moon,
And darkness.