I look to the Moon, hanging aloft
Among the clouds so milky soft.
How must it feel, so high above?
So chilled and bleak and void of love.
Collapsed and sunken are his eyes,
Dark and deep as the onyx skies.
As the Moon shies from the sun,
I share no love with anyone.
The Moon is alone, without affection.
In its grim face is my reflection.
Inside my heart, the longing grows,
And rots my soul, a sickly rose.
While I look beyond this cage,
I clench my fists; they shake with rage.
I desperately stare above,
Wishing to fly, free as a dove;
For release from the troubled heart I claim,
To be finally rid of the madness and shame.
Although reprieve is found in song,
To no one does my soul belong.
In music, may the pleas be spoken,
But all in vain; the heart is broken.
The Sphere returns, begins to sigh.
We are not so different, You and I.
So twisted and fractured is the White Stone.
We both have no one; We are both all alone.