One Moon's Intense Phase of Oddity

Somewhere between night and morning,
as Venus is falling,
the crashing dark dives at my window.

To look outside, and all the normal world is sound asleep.
So you are normal too, and the shadows creep
by the light posts of phantoms that never mastered the magic of reality
and were imprisoned in twilight.

For all you understand of people becoming ghosts,
my frailty scares you.
And I have to wear a mask like the rest of the House of Usher,
as we wait in a tragic tale of affluence
that will leave me scarred,
half what you expect of a man,
the only half without the grace of overconfidence.

Treat me, believe in a lie of myself,
a painted swoop that would leave you charmed,
none of the burning.

If I could be a figurine and without a talk,
I wouldn't be groomed by insecurity.
And you could have your way with me
in your due time,
whenever you'd leave from afternoon
and come back to my still, sculpted body at night.

If hot tears hadn't melted my fine composure when God had me born of clay,
I would be a real boy.
I wouldn't imagine Shakespeare in my soul,
and I'd never bother you,
I'd never care for you,
I'd never become neurotic while listening to singers (I know they sing about you
and maybe me
if I was up and down your hair like fragrancy).
If God made me perfect, I'd be nothing but a bass,
cool, calm, and collective,
and you just another ass.

But I can't be a boy.
I can't watch the bodies in the harem because I'm no heir to the king.
I have the poor man's luxury of love.
So ba-bump in the mourning night,
and I contemplate you until my broken mind.