Does the Moon curse itself for the scars?
Does it resent the Sun for baring them,
Having yearned to do away with them
And shine like a star?
Or does it crave a light of its own,
For its silver is a borrowed spar?
Perhaps there are more scars 
than meet the eye
And moonlight is the veil where they lie.
Then  again,
Does the Sun long to be ordinary star?
Does it ever wish to dim its reach,
Tired of being metaphor, never plain speech? 
Poles bleed the same injury
The Sun mourns its glory,
The Moon aches in ruin
Metaphors tired of themselves
Descend into antonym
By Shubhavi Ukhalkar