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.