Much as I applaud her beauty, Moon can drive me mad
And leave me lachrymose, despairing, oh so very sad…
But as a poet, I’m drawn to her penultimate allure
Compelled, yearning, piteous, begging silver’d tincture…
Thus, soonest she’s filled to brim, finished thrashing my mortal soul—I’m glad.
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.