The Moon of Nowhere

The moon of nowhere, silent and slow across the sky,
has caught you begging riches for your sweet song,
and as punishment gives you voice to question liberty,
a cut and swipe of logic targeted with ire.

Some philosophy was made that day you called for death,
Imagining yourself a soldier, gumshoe, scientist or hack,
Mad at madness, the stupidity that shows its head,
And draws the fire of those who suffer it.

The sun and moon are one, a unit shield to enmity,
A centurion's formation in battle with the Goth
And Visigoth of failing factory owners, history men,
Let loose like beetles, fading through to nothing.

She calls us up at night, under the moon that made her,
The ringing spilling from the empty house to us,
To wake the children and lead us all into distress,
Her compassion seeping through the wire and air.

She melts hearts, makes hands wring when she goes,
Has arbitration over truth delegated to her easily,
For she knows us all, and what will make us free,
What it takes to make young girls gather arms and kill,

To dream of arcs of bloody self-extermination,
And yet still condemn it, still defining liberty,
In that spray of bone and hope and life and love,
The keystones of decades under threat, in poverty.

The universal, cosmological extent of what you know,
Is rock and steel to us, your calls still seeping through,
Under the handset, up the stairs, to wake us gently,
With nagging thoughts of how to make things better.