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The Reflection Of The Moon

A painting

of a full moon

over top of snowy mountains

reflects in a mirror.

The moon is almost as big as the mountains.

It’s almost


then the real thing.

A beautiful woman

sits under the painting.

Both her,

and the giant moon,

are mysterious to me.


that's part of the appeal–

the mystery,

it’s always a little alluring.

She looks like she is in her early twenties.

And the moon,

she looks old.

It’s a rainy April day

and I haven't been able to sit still.

I’ve been wandering from one place to the next,

trying to find a good place to write.

Only, I could write anywhere.

I should be able to, anyway.

I’m actually


in search of something else,

something to fill the void.

It doesn’t make much sense

to look for it in a place like this,

but still,

I wander.

I look back to the mirror with the reflecting moon.

There is something peaceful in it.

I look back at the woman,

she is not peaceful,

she stir’s up the chaos.

Both the moon in the mirror,

and the woman,

are beautiful,

but one

makes my heart race,

and the other,

gives me a sense of peace.

I have to remember

that the feminine

is not deceitful by nature,

and that a painting is just a painting.


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