The moon was dark today,
invisible and yet so stiff that it perpetrated
an aura of despise.
Even the clouds felt fierce
and free and futile
in redeeming me of my fears.
I looked at the waters,
at the noise and the reflection,
but there was no light
that travelled through the gloominess
that surrounded us.
But that didn’t stop me from looking
at the colors that carved into everything,
at the sparkle that came
even from a pitch black night.
And it was happy,
the moment was,
taking on a stroll that gave off hope
and peace, and pain,
a blatant lie moulded into a sanctity
and a feeling that was no less than pacific.
Was this a reality we feel contradicted in,
or just a lapse of a pulse that no longer wept
of being a loner?
They ask us for a happy tale,
of a story that could touch their soul,
but there was always something imperfect,
something dark and cruel,
something that cherished the pain we could feel
and the stigma that crushed us far beneath.
But happiness was when we rose
though a pit that was no lesser dark
or a time that could never reach perfection!
But we did,
the moment did.
And so, even in misery and sadness,
in cries and sorrow,
in times the world was still messed up
and we a little less confused,
there was a happy tale to tell,
for that is what we all crave
in a life of dark humor.