Philosophical

Men are independent creatures. 
We think, and then we run. 
Our stony, almost passive, facial features 
hide the furnace of the frozen sun. 
The icy complexion keeps us soft and sane, 
makes us rue the stained glass milk of day - 
the flawless recourse of placid rain 
that washes the starless night away. 
It cloaks the moon's bright face 
and frowns on high imperial cast. 
Why do we humanize its pure-bred race, 
with a smile mistaken for its lupoid mask. 
Then what inner clock to time our wasted life, 
our might leads us past all fortune and into strife.

Of Men and Might