The sun wept for the moon,
but the moon did all but try.
And come every noon,
the sun would die.

Her light burning out,
like a candle.
but the moon would glout,
for him to mishandle
such a beauty was a sight
for sore eyes.

The clouds would cover her light
but her cries,
could never be heard above her madness.
Her face contorted,
her eyes pools of vastness.