THE CRESCENT

On a grim of a night’s passing
Moon’s promise teases through silvery trail—
Fading; toward the end of illumination,
A silhouette- tough yet frail.

Palms up, wide open—
Catching what eludes catching
Bare hands- wrong ones
Dead at the time of dying.

Slow and fast shifting breaths:
A peekaboo with little fireflies
A friend never to leave his kind—
Solitude in a dimly lit boudoir.

© Gheeneil

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