Can you hear the moon sing at night?
A distant melody from the most dulcet vocal pipes?
Have you ever nestled in her crescent bed
Like the kid in the DreamWorks emblem?
My winsome lady
Dotes on me.
Her visage,
Part amused, part exasperated.
For she knows why I've come to see her again--
To steal the roux from stars, milky and fulgent.
To hoard fragments of the night sky in my wooden chest.
To replevy memories that in her craters I'd once left.
Her safe-keeping is the only thing I trust,
Since elsewhere the magma of buried souvenirs might erupt
To form calderas, bottomless, limitless, cavernous.
The Vantablack abyss ravenous.
A part of me wants to let go of them; set them free-
The roux, the fragments, the memories.
But the other craves to witness
The eruption, the calderas, the abyss.
So I retrieve and bottle them,
Subject to pressures harsher than gems,
In hopes that they'd yield me diamonds,
Or blaze it all in an astronomical explosion.

Shifa