The moon no longer exists,
And the sun insists it shouldn’t either.
But the sun is a heavy breather
The smell of its morning breath
The smell of the moons premature death
Wakes us from out our slumber
Under which we could see
What has yet to be.
Our dreams have died
And none of the actors cried.
They did not know
They had no time.
They’re lost forever in sea of synapses of the mind.
The characters might appear again,
But to what end?
I guess it matters not,
They end so quickly they will soon be forgot.
During the days
The suns harsh rays
Conveys it’s sad reality.
Life is hard, brutal and uncaring.
It’s eyes are constantly staring.
Staring with malice and contempt.
No on is exempt.
No one can escape it's wrath
As we all must walk the same dreary path.
The moon is of a different sort.
A retort to the suns façade.
It cries with us.
Not compelled to seem tough.
It knows how the days are rough.
It’s sympathy are clearly shown.
A face in constant groan.
Eye’s open but vacant are all that’s shown.
It too had a hard day
And dare I say
It’s of a kinder lot.
That lets us dream of what we’ve not.
Dreams we so sorely need
To get us through the days at hand.
