Its Priv’lage is Perfection

I envy the moon.
As I sit upon the shore
I watch the tide roll in and out
As if trading convalescent nature,
A pendulum status quo.

I cherish low tide
And I walk along the sand,
Edified by life once hidden
By heavily salted opaque waters,
Blocking the light between us.

But the moon decides,
Moving the ocean at whim
To find fulfillment while lonely.
Crouching beneath the far too distant stars,
It smiles at us and rotates.

Its splendor is strength.
Its priv’lage is perfection
And oh how I wish I were he,
The man in the moon who moves the oceans
And changes the tide at will.


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