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The moon has its phases, once full, then half.
A crescent, sometimes dark.
Though it has a cycle of it's own, and it'll return to how it was.
Time, is all it needs, Patience, like the soil to seeds.
And life, to me, is practically the same,
A shifting light, a silent flame.
It shines, then hides behind the cloud, But hidden isn't lost, not bowed.
It's always there, where it must be, Glowing quiet, peacefully.
Perhaps it guards its light from their judgmental views,
Because silence feels like safety too.
And sometimes when I look above,
The moon feels too far to love.
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