See the moon hanging there in your chest,
In the place where your heart should be.
Glowing and constant:
Mother-light to your night-wandering.
Too irregular was your old heart,
Too deep and too raw;
A heart that worked too well.
But here the moon stands in its stead
With such strength, silver shielding your soul.
Pouring out quicksilver to fill up your wounds,
Sending stars out as sentinels
To your old weary nerves.
Holding you in enveloping palm,
Bright moon lets you rest from your uphill climb,
Lets you breathe the fresh air
Of night for one moment,
Lets you sleep without waking
Until you can manage
To use your own heart without breaking.
©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.