It isn't in a timely matter, or like a crescent moon,
Soft and silky, you can't hide.
Into the dark of night,
Or anywhere.
Wisped away, and sitting on the end,
Of my finger tips.
Each one has a home,
Or does it?
It isn't fashionably late, or like a harvest moon,
Orange and transparent from afar.
I can't hold it in the palm of my hand.
Or can I?
Soft and silky, you can't hide.
Into the dark of night,
Or anywhere.
Wisped away, and sitting on the end,
Of my finger tips.
Each one has a home,
Or does it?
It isn't fashionably late, or like a harvest moon,
Orange and transparent from afar.
I can't hold it in the palm of my hand.
Or can I?