Waking up every morning,
Seeing the sun rise.
The birds chirping and flying around,
Right before my eyes.
Now the sun's above,
Its rays beating down.
I cycle for a while,
My skin turning brown.
The sun is slowly setting,
Slightly touching the sea.
The moon coming from the other side,
Waiting to be seen.
Finally the sun is gone,
The moon has got what it wanted.
To be seen, to be loved,
To bring peace to those who are haunted.
Eventually, the moon disappears too,
Making way for the sun's light.
The moon is always yet to come,
But only when the time's right.
~!~Ana
YOU ARE READING
A Poem Is Worth A Story
PoetryDo you think something's not real, A legend , a superstition. Did you ever want an answer, A reason, an explanation. Stories could be fake, People could too, But it's not in our hands, To define who's who. Like how a picture is worth a thousand word...
