TINT

I caught glimpses of your blushing face
this evening, you bashful orb of night!
If only clouds didn’t dull my focal space;
your crimson disintegration from white.
Your moonshine’s murky and opaque ascent
is surely (arguably?) your lunar effort to bleed.
A blurry admission of your crimson consent
to never gleam fully to a bittersweet extent.

Slowly, I transmogrify from my silky glow
to a flaming luminescence, oddly juxtaposed
with the banality of your order, to bestow
upon you a conflicting moonlight transposed.

In thirty-three years, the pair of us will reconvene;
contemplative for now, the less tinted nights between.

@kwirb #30Days30Sonnets
September 27th 2015.