Mother Moon.

It was late, and I had already forgotten who I was and what it meant to be awake. The clock pushed, quite relentlessly, into the space of silence. The hour where fear becomes us and darkness is a cage, comes slow enough.

I watched, under cover of my porch, as dreams danced proudly until they disappeared behind the anchor of their golden light. The light that had flood the street, bleeding onto stages such as my own, called them back, drawing them in with the promise of safety and a normal facad. And, I wondered nothing, yet only sat with hope of being overtaken with it, wonder.

Had it not been for the merciless heat, which the pavement seem to force feed anyone willing to stand in its presence, I would have never met her. The grand veil I was wearing, woven with pieces of artificial lights and prepackaged ideas of the definition of grandeur, lifted from me. I raised my face, wet from circumstance, and saw her very plainly, the moon. 

How enticing and majestic is the far and the mysterious. How delightfully familiar and unknown did she seem, and at such a moment when I had been momentarily blinded by the mindless and the mundain. Here I was, ready to give into a plastic, predetermined state of loving and living, and in strides Mother Moon. She comes bearing only the truth of something bigger than my eye, evidence of something holy and primal. She is the old beauty and longing. And with her painful faith, I wonder when it was I last saw her.