I thoroughly believe the mire, That the moon and the stars are lies. They are nothing but rocks and fire, Pretty from afar, set only to agonize.
So I won’t promise you the literal moon, Or the talk of ‘from the moon and back’. I won’t wish for you to the stars, They are probably dead within the black.
Yet I hope to be the rocky moon, Driving waves to you at your behest. And I pray to be the starry fire, Burning within your eyes and chest.