I stole the soul of the moon,

Kept it unclothed to illume

Dark, deserted manor rooms 

And fireflies that forever loom 

Above fifty forsaken tombs.

 

I secured a piece for me,

Kept it between creases deep 

And verses of revered balladry 

Written on the tattered leaves 

Of my hands rickety.

 

But then came a shooting star,

Its hands stocked with bits of its heart,

Looking for a friend from afar.

So, I looked at the shimmering shard 

And lent it through the door slightly ajar.

 

The shooting star, a decent friend,

Relayed the end of his visit transient.

Don't get me wrong in the slightest, 

It was nice while it lasted, 

But what mattered more was that it ended.

 

What mattered the most was

The lack of permanence,

The doors we never opened,

The spark we never tamed,

The time we never sustained.

 

The stars and the sky 

Now flash dejected smiles,

As they see me soar high 

On key-lime greens and neons bright

To reconcile with the moon while I say my goodbyes.

 

Shifa