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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Thursday, June 12, 2014


The night is still
Ever bustling wind stands about with a worried gaze
For the Moon is in a sour mood,
She’s trying with all her might to burn the Earth with her chilled stare
Caring clouds crowd around her in soothing embrace
But she blows them away.
Her anger is seething, the Earth isn’t.
Without even caring to look up at the wild Moon
He shines his pearly cool blue indifferently like pride
Under the very light that the Moon gifts him.
To acknowledge her boundless love is too much to ask of him
He knows, no matter how scoffed, how rejected, how angry,
She won’t stop shining her light on him
Her primeval love is forever his without giving back.