The moon sits alone
on her heavenly chair,
Lighting your night
and enduring your stare.
The burden of beauty
is innate to her kind,
Celestial bodies
go forth and rewind.
She sees your elation
and studies your sorrow,
But regardless of state,
She will be here tomorrow.
And when she is feeling
undoubtedly full,
Below nations wield
under pan-optic pull.
And though she’s not tasted
the fruits of their labor,
She knows that the farmers
are deep in her favor.
Nor does she know
the cycles of life –
the laughter and tears;
the peace and the strife.
Her business is not
what we do by the dawn;
She knows only waxing,
waning, and gone.