The Moon

It rose from its bed of treetops
And hung there

Hovered low over roofs
At the end of the street

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
Embraced as I would not, could not
Embrace it.

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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