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


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,


(She has taught them to fear the dark)


But better shadow, he thinks,

than false god.