When Hope was a virgin
basking in transparent nights,
where love was innocent
and the heart was free in its nakedness,
the moon was revered
as a beacon to Hope.
Before Hope was sullied by Truth.
Now, my heart bleeds indigo
and in thundering whispers
it beats out the lies,
the true lies,
that it’s been feeding itself
for decades.
I had clearly misunderstood
the moon’s kisses
romanticized by a heart
now acutely aware of its nakedness.
Alone and needing comfort
I yearn for the sky’s embrace
but I feel only the intense apathy
of a cold and distant moon.
Hope has been discarded
indigo bleeds into the night
and the lies leave nothing behind.
© Dahlia Ramone: May 11, 2019
Dahlia Ramone 