The Sorrows Of The Moon Poem by Mark Heathcote

I would have wedded
the sorrows of the moon
if she'd have taken my hand
blissfully, I'd been her groom.

But engulf me now ocean
surf above the pounding in my heart.
Roll-out; your cold, locomotion
I am but flotsam, now, my sweetheart.
In as much as

I am beyond your languid-touch
in as much as
with all the sorrows of the moon
in-as-much as deaths
piling sedentary gaze of doom.
It thinly veils even you.