The Ever Evasive Moon

How many seasons may pass
before this nagging thought
will cease to ask
the question which makes me
frantically drastic?

Every night it is the moon
who gazes down upon me.
But never does she see me swoon
in the pleasures of spring,
nor in the winter's gloom.

Always looking--
but never does she see.

What if all that ever was in times past never was,
what if all that is in times present was as it was in times past,
what if now was it was, what if this wasn't just wishful thinking, what if--
What if?

Then maybe this song would sound different.