March 15, 2016 by petrujviljoen
This lifeless place, its constant a cycle from sickle to sickle, yet we call it fickle. This airless rock with only borrowed light, ebb and flow affected, lunatics amok in its gravity. This incidental sphere, Muslims time their fast by, Jesus die and rise by, Buddha’s birthday in May is marked by, Diana is distinguished by. Cold and barren, a distant orb, harvest and planting is timed by.
in reflection and
illusion it delights us –
months of blue Mondays