I had sworn. I had sworn I will never write about the Moon.
It did. It made me gasp at its beauty each time I looked at it; filled me with endearing wonderment for the silver it spilled; had me looking for a braveheart who had the courage to bring it down for me;
I kept looking,
I kept running,
I never found,
I never wrote.
A deep black cloud, the wrath of a thousand thunders, scents of far-fetched rain-drenched soils, and me… I sat under the sky- naked, poisoned, cloaked, and redeemed.
Magic for the hearts who wander, set camps at nights, travel afar in the days and wish for homes at dawns; magic unbound, magic unfound- the magic of the phases of the Moon.
It waxes and wanes, grows upon the darkness of each heart, only to fade away later.
Sorcery for the lone wolves to bask under, and a nightmare for those who could never befriend the downhills of life.
The Moon is an alchemist, weaving dreams for those asleep, and visions for those awake; Merlin to the wizards of the night and Helios to the worshipers of the day.
A totem of beauty and an omen of emotional warfare, both at the same time.
The Moon is what you look forward to and despise sitting with, when the world leaves you alone to suffer.