She is the Moon

To the Moon,

who listens when the world forgets to—

She is the moon.

She is a rhythm—

timeless, tidal, tender.

Predictable in pattern,

yet cloaked in quiet mystery.

She waxes, she wanes—

never quite the same,

yet always utterly herself.

Each phase, a whisper of her story:

silver slivers of becoming,

shadows that cradle her truth,

a full glow that stirs oceans

and hearts without warning.

But her magic is not bound to brilliance.

Even dimmed,

even hidden—

she is never gone.

Perception shifts with the beholder,

but she does not bend for the eye.

She simply remains—

constant,

lunar,

divine.

Misread by many,

understood by few,

she is not for decoding.

She is meant to be felt.

For some beauty is not crafted to be seen— only known.