Waxing

Big, fat, buttery Moon.
Baby’s face in the sky.
Tell me why you cry
fat buttery woe.
Does powerful Mars threaten from
so far below?  Ready to hide behind rooftops,
fade down to the safety of setting
of settling.
Like so many men I’ve known.
Where is fierce pride, independence?
Why is the best we expect
repentance, regret and remorse?
How let go call to challenge foretold
in the cards of romantic youth,
to become just a stagnant pawn?
When we reconcile alone,
can reflected virtue
keep us warm?
Who are you, fool Moon, to cry like
a brat in the night?
No Solar solace — pity-filled
lesser light. 
Moon falls out of my sight.
I’ve no stomach for dawn.
.
.
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