I sang myself hoarse, but no one knew the song,
a secret language, mouthed by one.
The lost episode of questions unspoken
to the quintessential boy—the crescent in motion.
Set far in the night, with such piercing light,
he gloats in the gift of basking in his might.
The stars take the stage; he waits in the wings.
Yet, in his shadow, truth remains unseen.
Consumed by pride, the lyrics misheard,
a symphony of sounds crescendo into code.
In translation, the mother tongue is lost.
Ignorance is bliss, with shapeshifters amidst.
With no false reply, I glance deeper inside,
revealing the phase he can no longer hide.
The beautiful shape, I cannot recognise.
A reflection of lies I once believed without sight.
The damned walk blind, and the graced shout high.
A facade formed easily can fool the naked eye.
Mutate the voice to a familiar tone—
the impossible man, omnifarious and cloned.
He waxes and wanes after first blush,
waives the invitation of unrequited lust.
Inoculation by the hands of himself,
cleansing the thought of another man’s touch.
His light fades, but not the ache;
some crescents don’t complete their wake.