Republished © Stuart Wilde
One day I stood on tiptoe in order to kiss the moon, she would have none of it. So I went down on one knee in homage, hoping for her love, again she ignored me. So I laid face down praying for her to forgive me, she shone silently upon my back with distain. So I turned to face upwards to more admire her beauty, calling for her to come down from her great height to love me.
She refused to answer.
I shuffled off, coated in the indignity of my ego’s masculinity – irritated by her coldness.
Then one early morn I stopped to admire a water droplet in the trumpet of the morning glory flower. She — The Moon — was in there hiding from the sun. I took the flower and ate it.
So now the moon had to marry me, but it was never a shotgun wedding for I realized I am the moon and she is me.
Categories: Art Film Writing
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