The moon holds on for its dear life,

as the morn' draws it's shape across the atmosphere.

Stars blink, on, off, on, off.

The starry shapes molding together all into one,

one shape.

Ashape of comfort, of fright, a cloud.

The moon fading in the light, but holding on,

so rough, so determined.

"Let me be seen, let me be seen," chants the moon.

Surrounded by light, its weakest point,

the stars no longer there to hold him in place.

Can he do it alone?

Strong enough to grasp hold of the sky?

The day runs on, light boring into your face,

your skin.

You look up, a crescent in the sky, gray,

faded into the clean blue,

he has held on.

Becoming more pronounced as clouds stay,

as stars beam the sun away.

So you ever see the sun out...

at night?