The disk and the crescent.

It hung in the night sky
like the sword of Damocles,
it's edges so sharp they drew
blood from the eyes.

It lit the world around it.
a small part though.
the stars are blind
they know not of it's turmoil, blind to it's glow.

It's only when it waxes,
that they notice it.
flock towards it.
so that they too may be seen,

when that wary eye,
lifts that lens to the disk.
and content with it's size,
touches it's first morsel of food.

it lives it's glory,
but as all things pass,
they return to their normalcy,
and as the dew falls on the grass,

it wanes again.
and the stars, repulsed
return to their states.
leaving the crescent to deal with the blow.

it hangs there, in the night sky.
the strings cut, the puppeteer gone.
it's edges so sharp,
they draw tears from the eyes.
and they fall as dew on the grass.

This was what the moon looked like on the morning of my Math End-sem exam an year ago. It's funny how the impending doom made me want to write a poem.

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