The battle done,

Remaining combatants one,

Gazing up to the gray cloak,

Tailored to the palace of the moon,

Threatened only by the ever-fading emissaries,

Of the ailing sun.



Each a perfect sentinel,

Of solar prowess technical.

The ceasefire teased opposite

By the lunar composite,

Of that sweeping cloak,

Choked,

Where the moon once woke.

Neither one nor other,



As if my breath could the life

Of either titan smother.