To you, the Moon

The moon has known me my whole life.
Seen me weep and howl.
It has kept my secrets when I whisper kindly to it.
It has silently taken all the anger I scream at it.
And I have written stories about its splendour, praised it for its serenity.
But I can honestly say, I know nothing of its life.
I know nothing of how its craters where formed.
Whether they were carved by God, or hit with rock.
Why it shies away during each cycle.
What does it see that embarasses it so.

I do not know how it bears to see the world as it is, if it bears it at all.
Did it finally feel connected as man landed gently upon its surface.
Did it feel angry as our flag splintered through its skin.
Or, did it feel nothing at all.
Does our folk lore and stories make it scoff at our imagination.
Does it spend its nights listening for its famous line, searching for the finger tips of lovers on a balcony.
When it sees the dawning horizon, does it scurry away or hang to the stars for one last glimpse at its only companion.
Is it revolted, or does it revel, in the whims of humanity.
At night I hear the waves crash against sand and feet and wonder if it's the moon trying to speak, trying to tell us of our beauty.
Maybe, it's trying to wash us away to depths where we can’t be seen.
I wonder if the moon likes me, if I could be its friend.
Could I join it in the sky in its crusade to shelter the unwanted in its shadows.
Or, would I be joining its campaign to spread its tendrils of darkness to the heart of man.
 
The moon has known me my whole life, and I may know nothing of its.
But to you, the moon, I ask only one thing.
Do you ever think the world can be as beautiful as you?