Moonwane
O fickle moon,
caretaker of souls
who chase their dreams
across the skies you
waver now, and waste away
in quiet desperation;
night surrenders to the light
as reveries fade.
O passionless pale face,
barely transparent,
bloodless as a dying rose
in the throes of dissolution.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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