Planting Flowers on the Moon

The sun doesn’t rise here    
it wouldn’t dare      
the two halves part the whole      
and yet all three are still in control    
as observers in a Necropolis full of somnambulists lucid dreaming      
how do they not know      
all moments are fleeting    
beautiful tragedy      
swimming in irony    
there really is no nuance in a renaissance    
to get there takes pain    
a historically stubborn stain      
existing, resisting, struggling not to get it twisted holding the floodgates    
against the pressure of prose juxtaposed      
like a noise that never stops    
echos, echoing around empty tombs      
while the all consuming, consumes      
somewhere out in there in the fray an old dream holds sway in what remains of a disenchanted cliché