The moon appears first 
   as a mere sliver of brightness in a desolate sky,
   a tantalizing hint of light's possibilities;
Then it grows slowly into a brilliant spectacle of
   illumination in regular fulfillment of heaven's expectation.

The moon shines every month whether I want it to or not. 
   Yet alone, without your love, I cannot bear to look at it. 
I've come to resent its relentless measure of my life;
   Month after lonely month in exile 
   from the continuation of my becoming.

I can do nothing to stop the moon from rising,
   anymore than I can prevent the sun from bathing in the ocean.
Perhaps I should despise the sun as well.
   Its rising brings no comfort 
   and its departure over the horizon yields no delight.

Love should rejoice at the sight of a glistening full moon,
   or the cosmic farewell of a setting sun.
But longing is the only reaction possible for me.
   I now live in the shadows, in the unlit part of consciousness,
   removed from the brightness of heavenly bodies.

In the warm mist of memory I cling to the preciousness of a life
   that was worth living.
The soft, red embers of a dying fire are all that remain
   to illuminate and comfort of a once full heart.

I hate the moon for being so proudly full, 
   the sun for making the sky weep red tears at day's end, and 
The stars for standing a never-ending vigil 
   each night we are apart.

Without the light and strength of your love
  life holds no wonder, no pleasure, no purpose.
Deep inside this broken heart are a moon, a sun, and even stars 
   in abundance
   Wait... wait to burst forth in celebration of a new Genesis.