Dear Moon

Perched on the all-encompassing illusion they call a sky,
sometimes bloated, sometimes halved
and sometimes merely a frown,
with stars a-gleaming all around,
does anyone ever hear you sigh?
Don’t you often feel alone and sleepless?
Or predictable?
Miles away, on this lacklustre earth,
where dog eat dog,
where breadcrumbs are reason enough to strangle strangers,
where the weak end up dead or served alive,
don’t some screams and bleats move you before
their owners, breathing beings, turn fodder to fellow-breathers?

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