Moonbeams

I have found a crooked moonbeam. Listen now—hear it sigh. It is broken and distraught, and oh how it is beautiful. It runs through shafts of light and explodes, distant and lonely, out in the cold burdened world of tomorrow. With its faded luminescences, it is barely noticeable as it sinks further into the abyss. I have found it wandering the cobblestoned paths, where oleanders have covered the ground and weeds curl gracefully along the vines. It gives off white flairs, it sheds pink roses near its feet as it walks momentarily through forest and thicket. See the silver as it illuminates for a moment before evaporating into the bark, into the woods. I caught up with the moonbeam, but it stayed ellusive, haunting the faded coppice with flecks of dusts. I hear it now, as it sings above the noise, and see its light from ashen cities. A crooked moonbeam, your place is nowhere.