I serve the moon in mystic sky it's liquid twists and bends. Perhaps he's not up so high that we cannot him, befriend. Watch his edge glint off the eye see how shimmering be his light hint of a thing in voided sky through the nothingness of night.
Watch his arching hanging soul in the picture perfect eye What if he's not a moon at all but point of paint and our dreams to see is hate is to be though quaint.
I wonder of the painted moon and out be-stabb'ed sky. Do we look at canvas or room? How are we up so high? I'll show you here to ponder at this vital, fleeting thought to wander