I am the moon, the very epitome of incompleteness. Grievous and aloof, I wear melancholy as my crown, my light dimmed by the weight of my own existence. I gaze down at the world below, at the jumbled tragedies that twist and turn in the shadows of the night. My being fades, crumbling into the dark, swallowed by the emptiness that surrounds me.
I see beneath me: the street lamps flicker with a dying light, casting shadows on burnt, tottered anticipations buried in the hearts of those who wait in vain. Dewy eyes moan for the treacherous moments that slip through their fingers, while the dying tales of bliss and joy turn to dust. Horrendous ends stain the lives of those who once dared to dream. I hide myself in the dark, terrified, useless in my own self-doubt. My desires are ineffectual, shackled by the gloom that imprisons me. Let me out, I beg.
Hush… listen closely to the cries of the woe-begone, to the circumscribed pain that resonates in the heart of harmony at an estuary. My flickering light exhibits the hideous chambers of despair, exposing them one by one, as the expatiating dark presses forward. Within it, the secret of verdicts is hidden, tangled in the endless cycle decided by the decree of fate. Ecstasy and pain, chaos and nothingness—they all come to pass, grasped in the clutches of inevitable sins, as death dances on the latitude of life, mocking its fragile existence.