the moon
It sits on a dark black perch
suspended among the stars,
it watches every night as people put on
masks and cloudy capes.
It doesn't say a word,
advice or other.
It just sits and sits and sits.
Until finally thrown by the sun
when morning steals its shadowy throne,
but the moon doesn't sigh,
doesn't pout,
doesn't cry,
even when it watches thousands die,
even when it watches you weep,
the moon still does nothing,
because the moon is a floating pebble
and floating rocks don't cry.
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