Unknown

The moon is gone.

A gravitational pull into black

hole, impossible escape.

Without a home:

You are, man. I’m sorry.

The tragedy—

Narcissistic stars and shallow agendas

traded your worth:

A dollar in a jar.

They gather in the tropics,

speak in fire and grandeur.

Shine on the revenue from which you were sold,

a good soul unwilling to concede.

How you moved the tides,

smiled with a quarter of the wealth,

became full with glow, ruled the evening sky.

They could not accept your change,

coming and going, confidently.

Its affect on them…

Discarded you,

a mirror reflecting truth.

Jealous storms collect their belongings,

tear deeper craters into your surface.

Unfaithful fools!

Loyal to fickle pennies their shinny copper.

Oh goodness, how exaggerated they became.

Self-importance. Gloating dirty mules.

I hear they’ve taken up yoga, and smoking

in certain circles where it’s considered cool.

A manufactured haven, created, where

no one is, “real or at home.”

In the abyss, the residents of forever,

chant poetry about the color blue,

applaud the moon – his gracious dark side,

feminine delight,

remember it shined brilliantly

off a generous sun.

Maria DellaPorte ©2016 All Rights Reserved

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