The stillborn moon

Born of mother earth

Sired by the sun

A blemished perfection

The foundations of its


An idle magnetism

He winds back time

Reflects upon her

Charcoal lips

Their garden of celebrated

Forbidden delights

All the time hearing

The medieval resonance of

A gothic choir

Made of fallen angels

In the chancel of

His mind

The thought of her

Sets his heart on fire still

Yet he pays the highest price

For long since she is but a

Less than precise

Misty memory

Of the times before the

Swastika’s greedy march

Of the days before the

Fall of Paris

Of the minute

They came for her

The stillborn moon


An old man

Smiles the smile of

World weary

Tender remembrance

A blemished perfection

Of blithesome preference

He shuts his eyes

One last time

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