I’m used by now to stick to left or right
it doesn’t matter where they split or meet
don’t tell me now the laws of wrong and right
the moon’s congealed, it’s too late to meet
and again make my broken things whole
and even all that’s perfect does not meet
each norm for being pure and whole
the moon’s full just once a month by right
It’s not whole, but the road's right; whether or not we meet.
Wanted to use this prompt here, but as usual got in too late. Story of my life! Borg de Nobel.