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Like we all are souls
who have bodies,
this moon is drifting on
the tense surface of our
collective sentimentality
flowing westward,
sphere of secondhand light
balanced on the fingertips
of outstretched hearts.
We seek it in the evening sky
but we are actually looking
for a compass, a clear line
of sight to the center
of who we are that shows
a mirror and a lonely mystery
that can hold its own
and inspires devotion.
We bathe in its presence like
a votive coronation
wishing to awaken the wolf
in our blood. We adore it
for everything the night
represents. We want to believe
our commonplace weaknesses
have an alter ego that takes
its form when the streetlights
come on, that our very essence
is made of base elements
that the daytime could never
fully comprehend nor claim
possession of. That we are
serene, powerful, and
the ambiguity of the silence
does not frighten us at all.
That the void can hear us,
and it sees how our mortal
beauty measures up to
the darkness, how our lives
are celestial satellites of our
desires, pulled by the tides.
That nothing is ending, just
fading its way to another world.
One where the past is drunk,
incoherent, uninhibited,
and brutally truthful,
dreams are torn from their
fancy paper wrapping and flung
out in scintillating symbols
along the arch of the bridge,
and love is the song that plays
from an invisible saxophone
while the moon looks on.
Naked and elegant in the cold.
Virginal, save for that one
brief affair with the son of Zeus,
more romantic legend
than history, really.
It made her even more sacred
and gibbous with answers.

“Supermoon + Amsterdam” by Vitaly Krivosheev


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