The dead wood slowly drifted
Towards the sandy shores,
Her journey having lifted
Rotten scars embedded in her soul.
The white sands softly shifted,
Protected and warmed her core,
The weeds now dry and wilted,
Snow white roses began to grow.
The sun he finally found her,
Shy amidst the bloom,
He kissed her tenderly – left her,
With a smile and a dreamy tune.
By night, the rose she blossomed,
Became one with the moon,
Her fragile wings – they opened,
She flew to heights anew.
The eclipse came as expected,
Earth – she shadowed the moon,
A bit of driftwood nestled,
On her frozen shores - spelling doom.
The sun he found her frozen,
Lost after the alien dawn,
He warmed her till he’d broken,
The ice and her surface – torn.
The moon she glided swiftly,
Powerful, feline, sure,
To the sun through pathways misty,
Alas, he shut the door.
The moon now back in her garden,
Single white rose amongst blood red,
The three fates’ sighs heavy laden,
As they furiously mend the thread.