One Percent

Only when the moon is not quite new
do I ever feel that it is staring at me,
as if standing quietly in a doorway of night,
a portal that leads to a lit room behind it,
out of sight.

Any loud sound becomes a blasphemy,
the natural quiet an insect symphony,
and the stars brightly sing their chorus,
barely suppressed by the dark face above,
a glimpsed catharsis.

The cool evening breeze never fails,
finding a moment to remind me to breathe,
a lifted focus causing the Earth to fall away,
a busy, angry, loving, hating world forgotten,
an otherworldly cay.

If I fail to glance at the skies,
consider me dead,
even if my feet still walk the Earth,
for my soul is gone,
without a goodbye.