So maybe I don’t heed the warnings - those
odd, contrapuntal assertions we are at best
a bunch of eccentrics; but who gives a toss
We’ve managed to merge the more arcane
no-loss view of ourselves, those in our own
image penchants we’d like to think of as us
But here is the end of an era; our moon’s a
timely reminder of who’s turn it is to tell lies
and so the game gratuitously gathers air
It is there in the shadows stretched across
windows - oscillating gently where harsher
light swears arcane events no allegiance
The sun will rise tomorrow it suggests - but
this is where we’re together in evenness of
of intent - think again of the cost as a gain
While you’re in a bright light’s role there is
sequestered structure to events, you’ll get
endorsement - and possibly even acclaim
Yet here no-one cares - be whomever you
see as relevant, there’s only you judging it
as fair portrayal, we don’t need convincing
And morning’s fare rests naggingly easier
than a critic’s audience suggesting you’ve
failed again to convince the greater mien
Finding and being whom you really are in
New Moon’s light mitigates relaxation - a
respite from being what you’re not -
And seeming trite’s what makes a recess
of blessing’s momentary tenure a lifetime
of unpretentious, grandiloquent geste
© 5 January 2015, I. D. Carswell
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