The Ivory Disk Of December

The ivory disk hangs forlorn in the sky, no luminescence of it's own and even full this night.

The hoary crescent moon of December delineates to me that glistening does not stipulate light of one's own.

I ask it to hearken to my tales and it sits with me for hours long, analogous to an old comrade. 

I have detested the moon and I have adored it, abhorred it for not being faultiness and loved it for the same. 

An embodiment of sublimity, the silver disk tonight is the contour of an arc, 

I yearn to rest on the arc, embrace the moon for it's as forlorn as I. 

The cold ivory disk of December is as lonely as I,

But it yet beams, and so shall I.