There is paint on the moon tonight

soft, silver-white

a shimmer that bends truth into grace.

It glows so sweetly

we forget the stone beneath

the raw pulse of craters

the quiet scars of age.

Once, the moon was enough.

Bare. Honest.

A mirror of all that wandered and wished.

Now, brushed in borrowed color

it hums a prettier lie,

a dream dressed in gloss.

The paint catches light

and throws it back like laughter

and we

we chase the echo

believing this shimmer

is the moon itself.

We call it beauty

but beauty wears masks.

We call it light

but the true glow hides underneath

muffled by our wanting.

So we stare at the painted sky

our eyes glazed in wonder

forgetting the moon’s own face

forgetting that in seeking more

we dim what was already whole.

And there we remain

lost in the reflection

wallowing in the illusion

while the real moon, unadorned

waits quietly

to be seen again.