I never understood the word moonbeam until I saw one. A stream of milky white on a canvas of dark and unforgiving ocean. The moon seemed to paint a streak down the middle as if someone had dropped the paint brush. Everywhere I would go the moon beam would follow as if it was shining only for me. Only for me. A sheet of silk, a streak of glimmering hope, a moonbeam. Lost in the glow and cloaked in the night, this is how I want to stay. Forever. Exactly like this.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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