Walk With Me, Oh Moon Poem by G. Newton V. Chance

Walk with me, oh moon;
let us count the tombstones,
excavate the young bones,
piled on young bones,
prematurely pulled from earth-womb.

With you at my side,
no need for furtive glances
over shoulders at the shadows.

Hand in hand, old woman,
there is no shame in romance
but I am in no mood for romance,
I am in no mood for dance.
I am in no mood for marching,
for marching is a death dance;
I am in no mood for waltzing,
for waltzing is a love dance.
Let us walk this slow dance, this sad dance,
with cadence of reflection and remorse;
let us search for young bones
without tombstones,
old bones too,
whose flesh was never found.
Help me count the pyres,
the urns and scattered ash.

Mourn with me, oh moon;
earth and moon are old
and fertile
but I am old and futile
to stem erosion’s tide,
devouring coastlines,
consuming bloodlines.
How will river survive
without replenishing rain?
The rivers run brown with foetal blood;
brown with foetid water.

Talk with me, oh moon;
tell me, moon,
from your singular perspective,
tell me what you see.
I feel your empathy.
Is this all you have to say;
that the wages of sex is life,
and the young makes way
for the new?

Walk with me, oh moon;
we will leave no footprints
to follow in the sunlight,
nothing but ethereal
evanescence of the silence,
of silent footsteps,
as we walk into the night.