Prayer to the Waning Moon

Old, dark woman,
growing stronger each night
as each night the moon dwindles and we are spun slowly but irresistibly into blackness;
you reach out with your sharpening sickled moon,
to divide, and decide,
to cut straight through me and remove any illusions,
any falsehoods and frauds I might harbor,
even unknowingly deep within,
any faults, no matter how dear to my heart.
Please let it be without pain.
But if it has to be painful or frightening,
I'll understand:
the loss of prized possessions is never pleasant,
no matter how necessary or wise.
As your sickle sharpens,
cut ever more finely,
shaping me to approach the person whose perfection is appropriate to who I am,
or rather to who I should be,
preparing me for the loss of a light of guidance, which will come in the dark of the moon.