I love you the moon for your elegance when you rise, but I’m in no need of your forceful hand.
You tell me when to sleep, and you wake me on your way out.
I’m of age and in no need of your sending me to slumber.
I have another book to read, a story to share, and a note to write.
You may promise time in the morning, but the morning sun always has something else in mind:
brush your teeth, comb your hair, and don’t forget your lunch on your way to labor–and so much more.
Be a good boy and at the least grab breakfast on the go.
Now my story is no longer valid. Another one is being written without my authorship. Someone else writes and I scribe. I long for the night when the moon is at rest, so that I may finally conquer the night.
But now that I’m idle with pen in hand, the moonbeam once again pushes me to slumber.