The moon belies the lumi­no­si­ty
That lies beneath its har­de­ned coat of gold
It hides too well the domes­ti­ci­ty
Of cries and whis­pers that ignore the mould.

As it will pierce and tres­pass on the walls
Of the for­lorn, the maud­lin and the sad
It vivi­fies and gra­ce­ful­ly enthrals
Like some deli­cious trans­cen­den­tal ad.

Indeed it adver­tises the embrace
That night reserves for crea­tures of the day
The tear­ful joy when fini­shing the race
And hope beyond the hope of come what may.

There is a lunar path to des­ti­ny
Rising against the sun in muti­ny.