Oblate Spheroid

She’s the moon, they say. And her name graced the lips
in your head, of the billion voices and in your flesh, of the easy tree grips
as all that you are take her for what they call her, but no. Not entirely.
Because when you dive into yourself, escaping the fetter of their folly,
drink upon the darkness of your world you know not for a short while,
and when you sleep on deeper depths, twirl for a longer mile,
the symbols, the letters- you rummage through them like fiery hells
to set sight upon a single name that will embrace all her chanted spells.
But whispers are all voids of muffles and the ink faded on the old scrolls,
In a way, it scarred you, but in it you find another beauty on her walls.
She holds dominion o’er your ocean tides, of your life three quarters.
Two hundred thousand miles, they say. But oh does it matter
when she is ever at your side, the light that grace your night?
Though she may wander for an inch, be away from you she might.
In a single stroke of time, as constant as your change of seasons- the soft tug.
It resists not, your soul. Love- you took it as a shot of whiskey, a capsule of drug,
killing you in the most beautiful manner, slowing your heartbeat like a symphony.
You are dying, fading. And with it your climate’s going rough
Because you were always next to her, just never close enough