I looked inside myself
And I saw a hollow moon
It had no mysticism to sanctify it
No rabbit, no man, no virgin connotations
No small steps toward mundial gravitas.
I forgive it; it’s not actually Luna,
Coming from me.
It’s just the stony reminder
Brought back in the back of Apollo’s
Shining projectile
That human tenderness, when dried,
Is dust
We come from stones and oceans
But we immolate in a flash
And ashes to dust is our fate.
I forgive the fact,
As we should all imperfect miracles.
So my little moon stays
Within me and my orbit
And hollowly awaits the sanctification
I can never give it.


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