The Soul of the Moon
I stole the soul of the moon,
Kept it unclothed to illume
Dark, deserted manor rooms
And fireflies that forever loom
Above fifty forsaken tombs.
I secured that piece for me,
Kept it between creases deep
And verses of revered poetries
Written on the tattered leaves
Of my hands rickety.
But then came a shooting star,
Its hands stocked with bits of its heart,
Looking for a friend from afar.
So, I looked at the shimmering shard
And lent it through the door slightly ajar.
The shooting star, a decent friend,
Relayed the end of his visit transient.
Don't get me wrong in the slightest,
It was nice while it lasted,
But what mattered more was that it ended.
What mattered the most was
The lack of permanence,
The doors we never opened,
The spark we never tamed,
The time we never sustained.
The stars and the sky
Now flash dejected smiles,
As they see me soar high
On key-lime greens and neons bright
To reconcile with the moon while I say my goodbyes.