The Moon

The moon and I are much alike.
Each existing apart from the world.
We stand back. Silent. Alone.
Wanting to be a part of it all, we dream;
Our wishes are blown apart,
Scattered into the void, like feathers in the wind.

We appear at times, bright and full of hope;
People look at us then,
For a lucky moment we may shine.
But always the hours turn
And we are forgotten with the coming of the morn.

There are moments that come and go,
So blinding in their intensity,
And painting such a beautiful story
Of how things can be.
Always just enough to make us believe.
We fall into the illusion that somehow,
This time things will be different.

You would think that we would learn.
After what seems to be lifetimes of this lesson.
We should remember by now,
That these things, for us, are not meant to be.
Each wound inflicted rips another hole.
On what feels like an already tattered shell.

The moon and I are much alike.
Each existing apart from the world.
We remain in the distance, eventually forgotten.
Our lives turned into
Some meaningless string of humiliation and solitude.
We are looked upon often by those without interest or truth.
And we are judged by them, never knowing what it is we’ve done.

Always we, the moon and I,
Are glanced upon in a fleeting moment;
Never living up to what they think we should be.
So we sit in the darkness, only with each other.
And cry for the coming of the dawn,
When time, and the world, will spin away.