The shadows of the moon
are not her choice.
The clouds sympathize;
they want to embellish her,
while she just wants to shine,
bask in the cold light,
of her strong glory,
owing it all -
every bit of her presence -
to the heat
of the sun.
When the sun dies,
as he will,
as all stars do,
what will this rock
of infinite shadow
feel in the truth
of its darkness?
Being a blank slate,
scars visible to no one.
No mere human
at least.
(Objects feel.
They must,
at some infinite depth.
For they are alive
only after
some form of death
by technology
or otherwise.)
- F
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