The Moon

It rose from its bed of treetops
And hung there
Large
Silver
Beckoning.

Hovered low over roofs
At the end of the street
Calling.

But, no
I must go
To my lonely bed.

It tried again in the night time
Shining through bathroom window.

Then sadly slipped from my sight
Hiding in wispy grey clouds
Enshrouded
Embraced as I would not, could not
Embrace it.

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About Rosalie Squires

'Who am I?' is a question whose answer keeps evolving, that can be answered in many, many ways; that has no known answer at all. But there are some clues to be found: stocksharpsquires.wordpress.
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