Whenever he feels like crying.
He hides on those dark cottons of the sky.
And let the night sky blankets him.
Draining his pain in downpours.
No rainbows after the rain.
Nor other moons to talk to.
There are times he's a quarter of himself.
Incomplete and pale.
Dim and alone.
An outcast among the stars.
Craters scrambles on his pale skin.
Were those punches of inhumane judgement or self inflicted pain.
Yes!
I wonder if the moon is like me.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts To Keep
PoetryWe all have words we choose to be left unsaid And these words are our thoughts to keep.
