The moon is half. So am I
In the wintry night,
remembering lowly
the stories of lonely
of the poorest time
with no one beside
to sing a song  of season
I felt my life treason.

I really like you all.
Not sure why we don't jive,
but my best when I'm with you
is only half-alive.

I curse the mind's divine plan
as I lay in valley's low
gazing upon myself a god
and a perfect smile aglow

whilst I toil in my misery
my soul tied with stones
my statue's likeness stands above
revolted at his lesser clone

Look at how he humbly gloats
His skin golden perfection
A mind more clear than unstained glass
A body crafted in circumspection

but though I pull my nails
with a revised renewed edition
with every labored detail
capturing perfection

this tortuous image
calms my heart
stabbing it with hope
for a better start

and I hear whispers in my valley
selling nectars of complacency
spinning truths from fantasy
of how I too one day may be

but as my hands try to summit
the hill soars ever higher
and my mind it pities me below
Remaining on my pyre

and my blood steams
and irrational rashes grow
as I come to realize
I'll forever remain below