The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress



The moon isn’t my friend. It’s like a lover that’s drifted far out of reach from my arms, and every time I gaze up at her pale face, I’m reminded of what once was, and what once was, was a beautiful thing. The sky is filled with clouds and a river with so many coins tossed along with untold wishes that if I were to go in and collect them I’d be a rich man indeed. But I don’t like water- it scares me. Everything that’s beautiful scares me because I am an ugly man, and in the face of that which is divine I cower and shake and wish only to retreat to the shadows. Women are the light, as is the truth. Nature. The animals as they dance. The music as it floats through the fields and cemeteries where we walk day after day searching for doorways that will lead us back to where we belong. I’m tired and feel a million years old. I’m a poet and the biggest liar I know. The truth is seductive and yet so is a lie. Arm in arm they make for a great fuck, which is why I’ll never learn. But yeah, the moon is so distant from what I am, and it mocks me for it in every possible way, but I can’t help but stand there cigarette in hand looking up with shortened breath romanticising about everything we have lost. It doesn’t scare me, though, but she does. Her and her ways that will forever remain a mystery to me.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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