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Descending Moon

Thin whirling veils of pink and gold
are intertwined across the sky and dance
in slow and graceful motion ‘round
a perfect half-sphere, cold and white and drenched
in mist that makes it wobble slightly to our eyes
as it descends through wisps of pink and gold;
the ribbons killing off its final, fading light,
to let the golden sunlight oversweep the world

Oh, whereto do you wind
behind the ribbons of the rosy mist,
the vapour veils that twist in wind
obscuring you, by moisture kissed?

When they shall fade, so shall you too;
you, misty silver half-moon cold
whose fading glow now only woo
your own scarred face, your memories of old.

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