The moon was whispering last night,
I heard it faintly as I passed the window.
"Don't come outside."

But I went anyway, aware of the danger(s).
Consumed with fear and a special longing
I forced myself out the door
Through invisible hands of reason and resentment.

It was not long before I saw him.
Still atop the pedestal where I had left him,
Still holding that god-pose
Which not-so oddly resembled that of a beggar.
But as I touched his foot, he crumbled before me.

It's well into morning now.
I worked the night through picking up the pieces.
I had planned to put them back together,
But I now realize I haven't the slightest idea how.

The moon screamed last night.
"Help this man!"
I never heard a thing.