The sun
chasing-- haunting-- the moon, a beauty.
We thrive in the midst of their war, of their loving hating moving conflicts.
Silvery scars on her surface; the moon, she bears the scorch marks of a relentless fight.
Most slick tendrils of fiery hatred
Have wrapped her up and burned her flesh.
The moon weeps for herself as no one else will.
She tugs at the water urgently needing to submerge herself,
To sooth her searing craters.
But never far enough behind comes the vicious hateful sun.
She hides  some nights.
Between, behind, in the shadow of planets surrounding her.
Mercury, though his role is most minor, has the most darling sense of humor
Jupiter, who's sheer size enticed her in, he was most sweet and
gave her a new found confidence
Pluto, a fighter, a sick one with a soft spot for the melodious moon, a final yield in her harvest of sanctuary. He loved her and she loved him.
No one on the surface noticed or played mind to the day that
The moon began chasing the sun.
The tables had turned, she would no longer run or hide or be hurt.
With Pluto in her shadow, an ever loved presence, she could rest at peace.