The man who waits for the moon
There in the distance standing tall reaches a hand out below scattered by weary cannonballs. The moon stalks high in the tinder-laced sky and a twinkle of hope begins burning on the amber of tonight. It isn’t the beginning, nor the passage of all time, it is the reflection of our hearts at crimson sunshine. To defeat the obstacle laid at hand it will take nothing but a selfless man. There is man who walks and stalks along the stream softly whispering, “where did she go?”
He is a man that waits for the moon
In the tenderness of black, when all is dark and well, the man walks silently under a dark magic spell. There in his cheeks the day sweat lay idle like dew from the mountain. He looks upon the streaming shore and glances down. For all that was lost is not alive in streaming waters. Bending down on one knee, he looks into the shore-bank. Tired and eclipsed from the day. There is no man who loves the moon more. He misses her soft glow. But now there appears to be a blanked sky.
He is the man that waits for the moon
When will she come and take my wish? When will she come?
The moon is scared. She hides beneath the