The Moon song

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As my heels clip along

the rounded cobbles,

echoing through the 

ghostly streets,

the moon watches on,

a silent guardian,

not asking for praise,

but shining forth its own

reflective beauty,

not unblemished,

like a silver screen,

but perfect in a way,

that I cannot describe,

its mottled skin part of its

surreptitious appeal,

it quietly guards us from

the nothingness,

borrowing its light,

but twisting it,

to shower down,

rays of pure white.


A piano tinkers in a house,

or my mind,

a perfect accompaniment,

to our white light parade,

as I tell the moon of a borrowed song.

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