The Dreamer's Pen

Beneath the veil of midnight’s quiet grace,
The man in the moon drifts, soft as snow,
His light a whisper, a gentle, glowing trace,
A secret that the stars alone could know.

He weaves through constellations, slow and free,
A dreamer kissed by winter’s frosty breath,
His eyes, like silver lakes, hold mystery,
While whispers from the stars defeat the death.

The world below, in frost and slumber lies,
But in his glow, the night begins to sing,
As if the winds themselves had learned to fly,
And touched the soul of everything.

The man in the moon, with stars in his hands,
Becomes the dream the night forever stands.