My broken moon 

My broken moon would often complain, 

Of its dullness, scars and pain. 

It said that its brightness was fading each hour 

That holding on to giving light, felt miraculously sour. 

I couldn’t see the cracks and neither could I see its scattered light, 

Which meant I couldn’t be my broken moon’s knight. 

My broken moon died one cold winter night

I couldn’t blink at the sight 

I stared at the dark night, for days and nights

With a faint hope to see my broken moon for one last time. 

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