I thoroughly believe the mire,
That the moon and the stars are lies.
They are nothing but rocks and fire,
Pretty from afar, set only to agonize.
So I won’t promise you the literal moon,
Or the talk of ‘from the moon and back’.
I won’t wish for you to the stars,
They are probably dead within the black.
Yet I hope to be the rocky moon,
Driving waves to you at your behest.
And I pray to be the starry fire,
Burning within your eyes and chest.