Things You See from the Moon

It’s funny years should pass so carelessly,
Throughout a cunning string of non-events
What has occurred is somewhat poor and toothless
I cannot grab a sense of me throughout.
Pains go numb, but not because I reach a higher power,
Some shred of tolerance
Towards my idling absolution.
It still hurts,
But touching it no longer comes in hand, like in the old days –
It’s getting less and less innocent.
No one suspects that I’m unwell,
Not even I can trace my heart’s true face
Behind the pompous string of self-deceiving stances.
And all they do is think I’m past the evil threshold
On the safe side of darkness,
On the kind half of the moon
That complements its halfway horror.
I’m not stronger
I’ve simply grown a thicker frost.