It withers

near a bare
tree,

under skies
filled with
gray.

It withers

with tired petals
amid dullness, and

rain.

I see it wither

here.

I see what

remains.

Poor haggard

thing

with no place to
go.

I see it wither here

without
ever seeing
it

grow.

The moon does not veil herself in the cloak of the night sky,
And whispers of no apologies for her flaws:
The craters, scars, and all else that manifests her.
In spite of her imperfections,
She shines with a light brighter than that of the seven heavens.