Moon

Trapped.
A room full of loud whispers beating her up.
Controlled.
They have made rabbits' ears of her spotlight and found angel’s tears in her untold shadows.
Hidden.
Like the unlit back of the two-faced mirror; the dusty voice of the unseen.
Secret.
Such frayed misprisions at eclipse time picture me a garment hitherto unheld.
Shines.
The moon sings to me through her ragged edges.
Unravelling.
Leafing through time.
Blooming.
Along her grained lines light flows.
Broken.
What is real in this play of light and shade but edges where the threads have come loose?