the moon rises between wispy clouds.
silvery light blooms into open windows of big houses, illuminating forgotten objects waiting on tables.
it is nothing but what you make of it,
and of it she makes the beginning of something bigger.
or maybe that's just wishful thinking.
hearts throb in chests; listening ears pause, mouths form an 'o' of unexpectedness. something so easily heard, forever ignored, until...
she pats the cat's head with shaking fingers and sad eyes.
she doesn't want to be here, doesn't want this happiness, this anything.
she's waiting for things to change; not for them to get easier, exactly, just for them to get better. even if that involves pain and tears and anguish.
the moon rises.
with it comes the torrential down pour of dismal apathy.
water fills her boots.
it drenches her soul.
she could be crying, but there is nothing to distinguish between her tears and the rain.
the moon rises.
light fills the world, shadows chase innocent victims across skylines of violence.
the moon rises.
children whisper of fairytales with happy endings because their reality doesn't include one.
the moon rises.
and, in the end, it leaves.
light trails after it like a lost broken man chasing his dream.