The moon and her phases oft dictate what's felt what people one meets and what hand one is dealt. When her face is waning life often seems drab but when it is waxing everything's ab-fab and corks they get pulled and ladies' hides get tanned and there is a party all across the land. As soon the mask of moon-sister gets smaller those bright happy people lose their rosy pallor and slink back to hide in their cool comfy caves to await the return of those waxing days. Then all's once more better and times they are grand and every gesture deserves one more standing raucous ovation from everyone pleasant and every moment's a gift treasure present. There's no man immune to her regular pull for each market is at once bearish and bull and bullshit and clap-trap and hollow and lame just like this here poem – here we go again.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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