Weep for they whose righteousness consists of lawlessness and celluloid.
A sardonic moon signs mayhem and havoc to the eyes
At rising, a potent rift between what is and what only seems
To be and we its tools allow for fancy as it deems
Fit to be within a mystical early pattern of the evening skies.
How meet and seemly must it be for the dedicated blind
To allow such flights of visual savagery to arrest
All logic, moving as it does to attest
What truly isn’t there at all. How like denial, refined
Anticipation in the night of our modernity
To grant such majesty, so great an urgency
As a behemoth moon as raw imagination cedes
Nothing to the truth but flaunts its strange lucidity
In increments that must eventually crown itself the liar.
Fully risen, there it is: what’s begun must in turn expire
shedding neither light nor fire.