Bleu Moon

The bleu moon reflects its intense light,

Deaf is right,

As silence crawls upon my face with such spite,

A baby lion last of its kind,

Raised by wolves,

Danger in a matter of time,

Will its cries be heard?

The thoughts scream loudly,

But the whispers squeal from the back of the herd,

The bleu moon still rotates on its own,

Light so white as the bone,

Fear not for hope creates on its own,

Shining perfectly down, 

Glaring back at my face,

The striking stars simply stare back at a stationary pace,

And with one wish winds down the clock,

Times up,

I'll return to my normal appearance at heart,

From the start,

I was witnessing works of art trailing the sweet tune

Of melodic sand dunes shading my view of this bleu moon.