Awe
They think that moons were made for darker tones
Of shadow than the sun can make, these men
Who don’t believe in love. They haunt those zones
Beyond affection and devotion, then
Conclude that love is non-existent red,
A scarlet or a crimson made of blight.
These men exist outside the borders of a bed
That beckons them with more than just tonight.
Their reds are shades of iron and of gray,
Are lead and tarnished tools. These souls have not
Experienced the brightest landscapes day
Presents. They fear its vistas will be fraught
With deeper canyons than their souls can cope
With. They are cowed by love’s dizzying slope.