The use of archaic language is a playful yet sardonic attempt at writing a mock moon poem.
Night after night, like a tireless silver eye—
luminant, cool, reassuring—your silent/steady
gaze has inspired countless lost souls
to bleed in ink, relinquishing their dear slumber.
Shelly spurted the best; Li Bai, perhaps, the second-best.
Even world-weary Yeats & Stevens strived, barely
capturing a fraction of your hard-and-soft gleam.
Canst thou tell me, who made thee?
And what art thou: a joyless eye or a chin of gold?
Art thou pale for weariness or blood-red in grief?
These straw-heads, must they contradict themselves?
This long lethargic night, to be approved by the scrollers
of cyberspace, what can I do but extend my
open palm to the dappled light slanting in, only to catch
sordid nothingness in the hollow of my hands?
Poetry by MetaPoetics
Read 70 times
Written on 2021-09-04 at 18:23
Tags Moon  Parody  Pastiche
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