Day 17

Why does the moon always stick in his beak,
Rummaging 'round and having a peek,
Probing my head like a nosy old swine,
Get off, get out - that stuff is mine.

Look how he peeps through my window at night,
Turning up stones for a crime to indict,
Prowling the space where my fears abide,
Shedding a light when I'm trying to hide.

Does he imagine I'll welcome him in?
Sublet a room to exhibit my sin?
Has he decided I owe him a debt?
And comes to collect in remorse and regret?

Why does he love to accuse and deride?
Pulling at threads like he pulls at the tide,
How would you feel if you only knew,
Moths would prefer a cremation to you.

What the hell, Moon!? Don't act surprised,
I didn't inveigle you in through my eyes,
You're not so pretty, pimpled and white,
All of the ugly things come out at night.

Take a hike, Moon! Leave me alone!
To harvest the sad, bitter crop you have sown,
Now that you're gone, I miss you a lot,
Come back, old Moon, you're the one friend I got.