Moon at Half Past Noon

The world is not a solid thing.
It is a breath upon a pane,
a silhouette of starlight, settling,
then washed away by rain.

We watch the cities of our days
dissolve like sugar in our tea.
New towers rise in a violet haze,
a dream the sea claims back by three.

A forest burns to scented coal,
the earth, a page turned black and bare.
But in the ash, a green patrol—
a stubborn, tender, living prayer.

The heart, a map of faded ink,
gets lost in streets that rearrange.
A promised shore begins to sink,
yet love still feels not strange, but strange.

It is a magic, bittersweet,
this constant coming-undone spell.
The ground is steady ‘neath our feet,
then rings like a departing bell.

So let the old world softly blur,
let new one’s form and beguile.
My constant in the shifting stir
is simply your remembered smile.

For we are of this fleeting art—
both the ember and the spark.
The heaven promised to the heart,
the song that finishes the dark.