27 - Alexander Andrews

If I could have sworn by that inconsistent moon,
then last night I would have frittered my fortune away.
Her heaviness lit the sky with the glow of promises;
those never spoken aloud but whispered on the insubstantial wind.

The earth had pulled her near, holding her close ’til morning called,
Before turning away and spinning toward that brighter light.
He left the cold and scornèd moon to her fall,
Her promises shouted to the emptiness of the night.

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