oh, uncaring moon
"Humans," she tells you, glowing like
the crescent moon "are silly beasts."
.
You fly with her, hover over
the quiet town. She watches
with a maternal smile.
"Cute though. A-dorable."
.
One small creature falls,
lets out a grating wail and
you cringe;
she frowns
her disapproval.
.
She leans over one, and whispers.
It sighs, smiles droopily,
glazed, seeing paradise and
not-real things.
.
"Don't do that," he snaps.
"You're young,
Darkrai. You don't
understand; I make them happy."
.
Happy, he puzzles;
follows her.
.
"Cresselia!" they shout-
moan - cry - pray
on crescent nights
"Grant us sweet dreams."
.
He hovers in the shadows
- watches-
They speak, these creatures
and love like people do.
.
"It looks pretty in the moonshine," she
whispers from their perch. "Senseless things."
"Her," he corrects.
.
"Why Darkrai, dear, what's this?
They don't think,
not really.
Frail creatures- I've seen many
pass the years. Shaded diversely and
some speak low, others high.
Amusing to watch their giddy ways
but they are
nothing.
Their unconscious minds wander foggy ways,
pathetic against the night-sky
endlessly centric in their meaningless ways.
I am their goddess, and
they worship me."
.
Darkrai hides. On
his isolated isle he wonders about
the world, the little creatures-
beings, persons.
.
The moon light is false, he knows,
and so flees from it, will not touch it
hates it, longs
to blot it out.
.
His name is cursed,
now.
(She has taught them to fear the dark)
.
But better shadow, he thinks,
than false god.