How bright the Moon, peeking through the trees.
A radiant bright, light to my eyes, does appease.
The fullness of the orb does brighten the night
No noise from the Moon, just pure delight.

Must I be the way I am?
Can I change my being?
Must I walk this road alone?
Going through life, not seeing?

The fire has died now,
burning all the logs
into embers.
Crackling of wood,
cooling,
echoes through the room,
while noises of the
dishwasher, cycling,
increasing intensity,
drowning out my memories.

A single, lonely Moth
flits to the flickering flame
Gone