My soul, like the moon, has its own phases
Each one labeled with cute little phrases
On a good day, I’m in the full moon
All the others stirred up with a spoon
They often sit in silence, these voices mine
Merely observers taking a spot in line
Yet, in waning gibbous, I get eclectic
Do this. Wash this. Oh, shit this is hectic.
A Gong sings when I reach a quarter
Both call a shift in the crumbling mortar.
While the crescent sings a ravenous hunger
Violet designs consume all lingering wonder
Till the new moon arises in its solemn silence
The face of Night grown tired of the violence
So, she starts the cycle anew in time
Such is this mental loop I call sublime.
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