eternity’s ruse

you couldn’t call it insomnia
this lying here staring at the moon
but you would never call it sleeping

even when i lie
still so still so perfectly still
she weaves her way
through branch and blind
writing long letters on misty pane

sentimental signals meant for
no one and everyone

in some long forgotten language
always cryptic and teasing,
mocking and daring

until i take the bait and rise
to plant warm feet on cold hard floor
and finally look her in the eye

all proud and angry and defiant

to discover nothing more
than my own moon face
round and white and staring back at me
in a flawless transparent reflection
i almost never





A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

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