The moon has lost her woe,
And I have, too. She was right:
It would hurt but I would live. It took time.
The moon serenaded me every night;
The sonnets of the moon, sweet when she was low
In the heavens, near the sea,
And by those heavenly poems she spoke to me,
Through red clouds, traveling far above the skyline,
Seeming, with her woes, almost to touch mine:
The best way to experience poetry
And love. I felt all her woe.
But now I do not love her. I love you.
She told me, and I protested,
But now it turns out it is true.
She flew upwards, and then she rested
In that far melancholy blue.
Dusk. The earth will take me into her arms soon.
And the orb above will be to me merely the moon.