Moon at Half Past Noon

It clings to wet grains where the surf retreats,
The pain washed clean by waves that rise and fall,
Does it still live, or fade, or lie in sheets
Of death—its sap once drained beyond recall?
Its eyes, awash with crimson rain, enthrall,
Did it hear the snap that drowned the sound
Of mayhem left to echo through the sprawl,
The endless town where broken dreams are found?
Does it dream of gusts that shook its bough,
Or sparrows perched, too light to stir its bloom?
No beak to pierce the floret’s tender vow,
Yet dew’s first kiss adorned its pinkish plume.
Though crushed by feet, by wind, by hail’s decree,
It breathes—a fragile prayer, wild and free.