Another poem about the insiginficance of our little lives... |
The Phases of the Moon The phases of the moon, like faces, Like feelings; now full, now smiling, Now frowning down upon mankind Like a great God of silver light And inconstancy; an apt Deity for a world such as this Crumpled, ancient board-game; I tire Of its ever-changing rules, And the futility of participation when There is neither beginning nor ending, No hope of winning, no passing ‘Go’. Do not collect two hundred pounds Of my flesh on payday, I gave All I have at the very beginning, And now all that is left are my dreams. Dreaming somewhere far away As I stare up at the silver moon And wonder if he stares back, This great God of ineffectuality And hopelessness, presiding over The eternal game of life. We are born alone, placed on the board Under the watchful eye of the moon. His eyes follow us as we play the game Alone. And die alone, as he looks on unmoving, Unmoved. He seems to watch me now, and laugh, But as I look closer, reality seeps in. Those eyes, seeming once so piercing – Mere craters in a cold sphere of rock Circling the game like a vulture, ready To pick the bones of poor, discarded players. And I see now that there is no God; There is only the moon, And darkness. |