They’ve woven veils out of my halo again!”
the moon bellowed though its own smoke.
For a long time, there it sat with a grimace...
Another nightfall wasted.

There was a sort of wheezing…
you know?
A toothy whistle, even.
Sardonicism of an angry crescent, it seemed.

And the trees outside were clearly snickering.

******* about something,
I lazily recalled as I slept;
another nightly poem; another silly cosmic backdrop
for someone’s soul.

“Brilliance in passing!” the moon
once said to itself, or rather of itself, I suppose.

No remedy for the stars tonight…
so I decided to write about it all over again.