WANING MOON
- May 15
- 1 min read
By Leanna Webbe
Receding light
falling from a pallid mass
of celestial bone.
Shapeless in a void of gaping sky.
In the fullest phase of her sojourn,
loss had risen to the surface
like seeping puss,
opening new wounds.
Yearning to exercise the art
of floating away.
From the ache of remembering
what was always dreamt
but never lived.
Yet nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to go.
Now, a satellite of blunted fettle.
Still looming,
but shrinking.
Emitting rays of mourning,
coloured like soured milk,
glinting at an epiphany:
that regret does not serve,
it diminishes.
It pulls further into the pits
of the imagination.
No harvest is ever final.
We will never cease to grow.
Satiated by the release: relief.
Accepting that perfection
could never exist in this sphere.
In swollen illumination,
there were cracks and faults
not seen before.
Yet they had always been there.
Even in her obscurity.
They just looked different -
in her ephemeral glow.
She isn't
always your mother
or sister
or friend.
She is you.
She is the veil between
the earth and the dark facet
of decline.
Relinquish control.
Let go.
She is spoiled.
She is rot.
She is decay.
Destruction.
Death.
She is all
we are yet to know.
When she is wiped out,
she will do it all again.
Differently.
So...
Without the ebb,
there can be no flow.