I’ve always found it quite a catch
When my father told me he wanted to blow up the moon
Funny how he wanted something harmless dead
Maybe it knew more about him than he did
Or maybe the moon never told him what he needed
Perhaps, it was because all he did to speak was strangle his words with vengeance and demand, spitting it at the figure in the sky to fix at hand
From the very beginning it has spied on the world’s greatest mysteries forming beneath it’s grey feet
Even the very first picture painted by the gods
But, to him it was the most useless thing
Just a floating rock hanging in the sky
True observer, this secretive moon, only showing one side of its face to the earth
To me it’s a guardian with an unspoken bond
Never having to speak in human dialogue
A language that forms internally
To think of a better relationship we’d have if we sat under it’s twinkling threads
With this knowledge I know, I someday would tell my father how it would heal our past wounds
Letting it free into the darkness and sending it out into space
In a black hole it engulfs these wounds, glad to hold the weight
