Four crescent moons glowing white
Carved into the palm of my hand.
Here I will stay, talk to fight.
Against myself I will make
Just another stand.
Eight crescent moons glowing red
By now, honestly, I’m surprised the marks haven’t bled.
It’s over, with a sigh, I step from the crowd
Away from the people, shifting and loud,
And back into the quiet of my head.