When I owned the moon,
love songs made me swoon,
and birds rejoiced in magic,
but I dropped the ball,
a fumbl-
ing
fall.
Now all they sing is tragic.
Reworked heartache from youth's journal. Thanks to those who liked the previous version of this one. I made an effort to improve the rhythm and richness, while retaining what I hope is a charming simplicity (and opting to keep the cliche, because I think it’s punny.) And who doesn’t love some illustrative formatting?