The face on the moon is a mask,
a caricature,
a serial killer,
no different than mine:
it always looks sad, alone,
surprised to find itself
so far out there
on its own.
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Categories: poetry
Bill Pearse
Writing is learning to see in the dark
Bill Pearse 
I’m not sure if I should be depressed or enlightened. Great post.
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Thanks Alesia – yes, I bounce between depression and enlightenment myself. More on the former 🙂
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