Like the Moon.

Modeled after what, I could not tell;
the moon's construction a mystery.
Harboring signs so hard to read,
months spent wasting time and energy.

The tide comes in and goes back out;
the only purpose able to be conceived.
Pressure changes as we spiral 'round
the sun, itself; our center of being.

Every thirty eves, the sun reveals the pale cataract of the moon,
sealed together like a button or a pearl,
smooth in appearance, but just as rough as any other world.
So quick to judge, we once saw faces
with the passing days and the seasons,
discontent with our own graces,
we created demons in the night sky to blame when
all was not well, and amiss;
when we couldn't sleep,
when we were pissed;
we made up phantoms like any child,
and then chased them away with our lights.

And all the while: we built our homes with steady hands,
superstition running rampant through all the land.
And each day we saw a part of ourselves slip away,
and let those pieces fade, into the wind and the sea;
in favor of machines,
in favor of logic.
In favor of rationale instead of promise.
In favor of equations and solid "proof"
instead of creativity and love and truth.

So like our moon, we've revolved into shadow,
the sun missing us entirely.
And while in this darkness, we have lost the will to inspire
both one another and ourselves; and we're growing tired.
But, like the moon, we'll become ripe and full again;
give it time, my beautiful family...
just give it time, my friends.