What is it, she the moon has taken

unto herself--as the night rushes to

conclusions?

When she's put to the brute black wall--

she's found unnerving, because she

doesn't betray what eats her alive.

How many phased confessions of the

sun has she internalized?

What has that done to her over time's

time--the skittish chalkiness of bearing

what has refused to leave her?

There's not a creeping creature, or

movement of water that's not imbued

with what she sits with.

In lieu of her sacrifice, as freedom begins

to bitter in the mouths of those who've

tasted it--it will only begin to sweeten in

hers.

When she'll finally speak her Heart.