Before the simple moon was in its place

then no one knew the reason for your face

a lunch where all could gossip, snap, or sneer

Was where the fates discussed and talked about

The many snags that every sweater has

May need a microscope to understand

A luncheon with the temperature of ice

What do with you, already there, we should

The forest woudn’t give us any aid

The silent rock did never blink its eyes

Said you were here to police all the brass

To turn the spots of mica into gold

You never did annoynce your purpose here

Needless to say, a persona may adhere

to goals celestial, measured out by stars

or if the mission fades, find your own way.