What does the Moon care what I write of it?
Such a flight of fancy never to be told.
The stars take no heed to inspiration
even though they are a neverending source.

What power has the mist and the cold?
Over our feeble mortal souls?
we make for quiet bedlam
haughty in our superfluousness

so what if all leaves crumble and die?
is that meaningful somehow?
or is it a whisper of the breeze
Comfortable and eerie.

does it matter, that matter,
energy coexist free
when at once they are annihilated
as dreams upon rising?

is it true
when one can not be certain
if it is safe
when one can not be there?

can you believe
with illusion
and a shadow glance
as your only guiding milestone?

know that height and measurment
at the apex of understanding
cannot tell a tale
of a forgotten heart

and if the snow should fall, sour, graceless,
and we will give up hope,
would it be wasteful to say
that we were loved the most?

Not longlasting the memory of us and ours.
Of trials and tribulations.
Thousands past and thousands future
with uncertainty in the moonlight.

So what does the moon care what I write of it?
Even if it isn't anything, I still find it beautiful.