the iridescent moon called my bluff
from his celestial tower:
'you truly don't look so tough
now; time has turned you sour.'
he glowed and sat there smugly,
and i thought grimly that my muse
must never think me so ugly
as when his inspiration i refuse.
it was nothing personal, but my hand
with lunar ink would not tremble;
even if stricken, all unplanned,
the pretty words could not assemble.
i thought it only right to endure the chide
of faithful master, who'd never suffice
to abandon the heavens he loves to abide;
even for me, no worthy sacrifice.
shaking knees stood on steady ground
and i made a fair bargain for peace:
i would write him letters to sway the sound
that silence makes when affections cease.
if he'd remain my muse when needed
and continue his ritual starlit dance,
i'd find him words, undefeated,
either for verse or prose, with a chance
to dissolve the distance, to make him swoon:
my dedication came alive in letters to the moon.