The moon never falls in love, or obsesses
on her personal needs, nor does she entertain
her own hopes or dreams, but bears
the prayers of the earthbound with grace
and uncompromising consistency.
She must be lonely, silver starlet
of the witching hour, voyeur of the vulnerable
upon her pedestal, never clutched
to kiss a lover’s lips, never lulled
by the rocking of hip against hip.
Her existence, only to bear witness.
The stars provide some company, winking
and twinkling, but all sparkle and fade.
The planets are pleasant, but distant
and condescending; planets predominant
over moons where they’re concerned.
Oh there’s work to be done, and she does it
well, turning tide and werewolf
at will while inspiring poets
to ode her more often than she could hope
to recall, though a few she knows by heart.
The moon endures a life accursed;
adored, but helpless to love in return.