The Moon hangs low
Like mistletoe
Precariously perched on cloudy arms
Of Night’s majestic charm.
In awe
Of the raw
Brazenness floating
In the air, gloating
About their nocturnal fling.
Stars shimmer through
Branched boughs
To witness
Them both in distress
For the union, though grand,
Can never stand
Up to the laws of nature who
Betrothed regal Night
To faded Morning Light.
Still, each day
The pining Moon
Eagerly awaits the gloom
Of their transient forever.
The skies raise a toast
While they make the most
Of numbered moments together
Gently shedding tears
Pearled perfectly in between layers
Of earnest prayers
To a God who pays no heed.
Finally, at dawn
The Night retreats in lovelorn plight
Away from the Moon
Into the arms of Morning Light.