Like my earnest bestie, hoping rest and reprieve
Of a journey to the moon, a voyage of discovery
At that.
Then again, he at best is sold
To seeking the white light as joy or so
And I of all I should not alter
His misplaced and false mystical thought
But to him, I shall offer
A chance to consider the other view
For; while he considers there are beaches
And decides to bask on white sand dunes
He must know the moon holds nothing
Barren as the lover's soul
Rejected, in the apostasy of love
At best the song one can hear
Is Chopin's Marche Funèbrè
Which speaks of nothing joyous
But the end of arts and souls
The yachts and steamships ferry only in the not
For the moon seeks to glorify its presence
Borrowing and begging for the sun's light
Long have we thought false
Long have we raised and praised the moon
For now, if Feby should realize
It is nothing, has only ill
Living on others' soul, sapping on wanton desires
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