The Moon

My instinct is broken

From fighting for so long.

Yet succumbing to instinct,

I was predator or prey.

Overcoming, I become:

Autonomous,

Self-generating,

Intensely, quietly powerful.

Society at large is a machine

For siphoning this joyful,

This exuberant energy.

The human animal is such a machine,

Rendered a gear,

A turning wheel,

Reduced from a whole

Into a mere part, so

Destinies interlock.

Tick. Tick. Tick goes the clock.

To tear oneself out of the clock is madness,

Yet it is just such a path,

Through looming hills,

Beyond the great tower,

Which I have chosen to walk,

Devoted only to the hymn of a

Simple, certain, tranquil pleasure,

The enchanting glow

Of the faintest moonbeam.