If the moon had no stars,
he’d drift alone, un whole,
his silver smiles a quiet mask,
a painted light upon the cold.
They say he gleams with joy,
but no, the truth remains—
we all have smiled to comfort hearts
while hiding silent pain.
He whispers in the midnight deep,
a melody so sweet yet torn,
of navy glass and sorrowed waves,
adrift, abandoned, worn.
He prays for hope to lead the way,
for shimmer in the endless dark,
for little things that shape the night,
for stars—his beating heart.