Whoa, haven't been on here for months! Got to get back on the band wagon, haha; Here's a little something, a first part in a sequence of poems i've made.
The moon is old; but is unattainable. No man can mine, refine or devine it to the gods, but they can see, feel and be it.
That golden glow shows them the truth of the night, the plight and the not-so-rights of this world and that burns, hurls, and churns their stomachs.
Treasured beauty and wealthy brutality, that it promises, is took by no man, but by his shadow.
It steals the glow, as it goes, nobody knows what to do; they grow accustomed, sequinned and beaten by this fact.
Their back, which they can not visage or pillage, takes the one thing that cannot, though they would lie, and deny this.
In the night, the darkness, sadness and madness takes light and by will and might, the best withstand it.
The weak and the meek seek to do the same and fail; How sad it is to be a man in the day, blocked by their own dark mind.
The moon is old; it see's the pain, the insane, the untame, the repetitive patterns of a world turned plain.
It starts to feel less alone.
[highly under construction, alot can be changed here, i understand that, i'd be grateful to any ideas/criticism]
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