Mourn the Moon

When twilight comes
I seek her face,
amidst the stars
in the dark of space.

Sometimes she appears
like a golden orb,
A spherical canvas
for light to absorb.

Other nights she transforms,
either wax or wane;
Gibbous or crescent
radiating a window pane.

Regardless of phase,
My heart does swoon;
And when the sun rises up
I mourn the moon.

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