Moon at Half Past Noon

And so it was decided, the great, final plan,
not a binary split for every woman and man.
The Gates weren’t a finish, a win or a loss,
but a shimmering, grand Orientation Crossroads.

The tyrants and monsters, so twisted with hate,
were sent to a workshop, titled “Healing Your Fate.”
The saints, few and smiling, just walked right on through,
they had nothing to learn, nothing to undo.

But the rest of us—oh, the flawed and the fond—
the gossips, the cowards, who sometimes responded…
We were sent to the Middle Realm, the practical class,
Another life, as a new soul, to bypass
The limits and lessons we failed to grasp.
A new organism, a new human, perhaps.

You’d forget the old details, the name and the face,
But the core of the lesson was held in that space.
A soul who was selfish might now start out poor.
A soul who was cruel might need kindness the more.
It was messy, raw, dangerous, beautifully unfair—
The courage it fostered was filling the air.

In Heaven, the saints experienced bliss, ever-bright,
But a subtle dimming had softened their light.
For a self that is perfect, with nothing to seek,
Begins to forget what it means to be weak.

In Hell, the few residents, bitter and cold,
Rehearsed their own stories, a loop to behold.
They were right, they were wronged! They were justified, see!
And they’d choose their own torment for all eternity.

But on the Middle Planet, with its turbulent art,
We weren’t just passing; we were making a heart.
For a perfect, flat sea has no story to tell,
But the shore, shaped by waves, knows the ocean so well.
The better realm isn’t the one that’s just kind,
It’s the one that still has your becoming in mind.