The Dying Moon

Lost within a purplish haze
of a dying moon,
where flowers no longer bloom
and life dwindles with
each inhaled breath. 

The languid soul,
parched by years of
wandering alone
(within)
and the desperation
(and need)
to be understood
can fight no more.

Here one can no longer
find that silvery light,

the glow that brings a smile
to those who haunt the night.

For the moon dies slow,
with no soul to weep for
and no grave in which to sleep.