Overhead
When the moon hangs over your head
Hour after hour without an answer waits
Like a question mark in the dark
Or an empty platter of ghostly plates
You hope that nothing is the matter
And it is and it is not
Taking footsteps, echoing tread
Following you like incurious fates
When the moon hangs over your head
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2013-05-04 at 19:16
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