The Moon Will Make You Blind

The morning dew was drip dropping
from the leaves outside,
and the blood was slish sloshing
through his temples.
There was a pounding behind his eyes
like his head was full of Muppets
and Animal was playing a drum solo.
He had dreamt of a hill of grass
and a birch that branched
this way
and that way
and this way again,
feeling its way across the clouds.
But always,
always,
it missed the sun.
Teased by the breaks of its cover,
but always,
always,
it would be covered again,
or the wooden fingers were pushed away
by the northern winds.
Always,
again and again
until the tree crooned to the setting sun
and was left only with the rising moon.
And it grasped it tight for another night
as a starving man would an apple,
but the tree would bear no fruit.
And so he had dreamt while he had slept,
and so now did he wake
to an empty bed and the empty bottles
he measured his days by.
And so too did he now curse the sun
that left him blinded
and dazed
and sticky,
and living a life of regret.
Staring at the sun will make you blind,
but so will living only at night,
and grasping only for the moon.