Lie back, upon a bed of grass
gazing at a moonlit sky.

A muted breeze, hollow, mourning
escapes an unfelt sigh

The stars, they rest, upon the boughs
blind to their twinkling joy

A darkened heart, calls forth a blackness
the boughs release, unseen in empty eyes.


-Phobos

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Midsummer, in the year 120 MA.