Every night, I looked out
For the moon.
Like a devotee, faithful and devout,
Searching for a boon.
My mind couldn’t fathom,
Constellations from the stars.
The cold moon, in a cloak of platinum,
Smiling wryly, from afar.
I saw him pacing around,
In a garden of darkness.
Was he brooding, around,
Alone in the vastness?
For he had hollowed scars,
But not any close friends.
He was closer than the stars,
But without incandescence.
I wondered if he was jealous?
Weary of loneliness?
At Mars, Phobos had Deimos
And others ahead, had countless.
Was he insecure, and careful,
Of Neptune, where hues of blues swirled,
Of being more beautiful?
But then, it slowly unfurled.
The reason why he roamed,
The earth, looking at every corner,
Moving quickly when shadowed,
And pulling at the water.
The night he disappeared,
It dawned upon me.
That he just feared,
Sharing his lively
Earth.