The moon is a gigantic sponge that hovers above the children of Mother Earth to soak up their silent screams, tears & sorrow that evaporate into the dark velvet sky.
Their intensity is so solid that it dents and craters the moon.
The moon is a cheese ball that is cultured by the pain of those who lose a brother, sister, mother, father, aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, friend, lover, soul.
It is enriched by the memories of the dear departed that we wish we could have held and comforted in the final hour.
The moon is a papier-mâché globe
Ever so fragile and held together by our strings of disappointment.
They coil around it as we let go and overcome the fragility of losing hope in humankind.
The moon is many things to me.
I have never set foot on it.
But when I see it hang in the shimmery night sky,
I am reminded that I am still here and that I matter.
I matter to some people even though I’ll never exist to some.
Most importantly, I am someone’s moon.
And that can never be stripped from me.
Frank Malaba © 2015