The moon belies the luminosity
That lies beneath its hard­ened coat of gold
It hides too well the domesticity
Of cries and whis­pers that ignore the mould.

As it will pierce and tres­pass on the walls
Of the for­lorn, the maudlin and the sad
It viv­i­fies and grace­ful­ly enthrals
Like some deli­cious tran­scen­den­tal ad.

Indeed it adver­tis­es the embrace
That night reserves for crea­tures of the day
The tear­ful joy when fin­ish­ing the race
And hope beyond the hope of come what may.

There is a lunar path to destiny
Ris­ing against the sun in mutiny.
 

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