Moonlit reflection casted upon a sleeping form.

Every plane, every ridge and muscle defined by silver.

Silent underwater room, richly furnished.

The moon climbs through the glass, scintillating on the black lacquered bed stand, shining brightly on the cold brass woman, whispering sweet nothings on the linen sheets.

The bed is empty for Adone, always was.

The cracked mirror watches while the tin soldier breathes a world he no longer owns.

And the moon cracks too, like a mere egg’s shell.

Graceful and sweet is the coo of her voice trough the crack.

Find the shore you lost, little tin man as for all your brute strength, polite smiles and cold heart, She will never return.

Not to you or anyone else as she found her freedom in blindness.

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