Lunar Witness

There was a time
the earth was whole.
No tides.
No dream.
Only silence.

Then came the rupture—
rock ripped from flesh,
spun bleeding into the void.
From the kaleidoscope they rose—
calico beings,
skin split with color.
No blessing.
No prayer.

Only fractured tongues
calling the rupture sacred.

The sphere cooled, scarred,
drifting upward.
The first light of night—
it did not soothe,
it exposed.

Moon fire spilled,
shadows dragged hissing from holes.
Monsters unmasked.
Secrets unearthed.

Not born of gods.
Not sung by angels.
But torn from earth,
blood into light,
scar into sky.

The moon drifts still—
a wound eternal.
The prophets left their curse:
nothing made in violence will ever heal.

—Jon.E.B. | Ruptured