Seeking the chores of midnight,
An issue of moonlight deserved to alight
Upon the shadows of Shadow and struggle.
And, upon the daytime's rabble.
The hustle of commotion is dead till morn,
No fervid spirits, no muffled horn.
Still the midnight was restless and lo
And behold the moonlight's spangly show.
There is a lot to be said
And, there's a lot to be known and spread.
"Why does this world whom I light alone,
When I die, puts me in forlorn?"
The skeptical moonlight blanc,
In her questions, was blindly sunk.
"Why shall I ruin my silver servile
For the mangy staccato futile?"
Then, began a scuffle small enow
To pinch the tenebrous below.
To veil the charm of scribbled shine;
And, let the things themselves align.
But the scabrous efforts were obscure
For the moonlight wasn't devoid of allure.
And the questions of the "Curious" were
Pummeled by her own desire.
"Why am I stuck so long in
My struggles to conceal my skin?"
But, no longer was time her slave,
And, the dawn haggled the shine of the knave.
As the virgin crimson kissed the ground,
Nowhere was the moonlight found.
The inevitable is difficult to overthrow
And, moonlight got the gratifying innuendo.