There is paint on the moon tonight
soft, silver-white
a shimmer that bends truth into grace.
It glows so sweetly
we forget the stone beneath
the raw pulse of craters
the quiet scars of age.

Once, the moon was enough.
Bare. Honest.
A mirror of all that wandered and wished.
Now, brushed in borrowed color
it hums a prettier lie,
a dream dressed in gloss.

The paint catches light
and throws it back like laughter
and we
we chase the echo
believing this shimmer
is the moon itself.

We call it beauty
but beauty wears masks.
We call it light
but the true glow hides underneath
muffled by our wanting.

So we stare at the painted sky
our eyes glazed in wonder
forgetting the moon's own face
forgetting that in seeking more
we dim what was already whole.

And there we remain
lost in the reflection
wallowing in the illusion
while the real moon, unadorned
waits quietly
to be seen again.