Ah, look you, men of iron will.
See, fools of tender heart.
Behold, those of noble birth.
Attend, lowest of the low.
In all majestic splendor,
the gentler orb turns
soft and saddened eye
to sodden field.
There is no one to greet her,
to write a sonnet to her beauty,
no one left now even to ignore it,
or wish in hope upon it.
Yet on your ancient quarrels,
as she always has, she rises,
and gazes on your stillness,
wonders at your silence,
and cries the falling stars
to soak, and cloak the folly
of your war-filled hearts.
The ancient moon,
in tranquil glory,
in timeless diary,
writes once more…
They do not love.
Beyond Panic 