My lullaby is sweet and short,
perhaps you've heard the tune.

A little girl was searching for
the pathway to the moon;

she stumbled and she fell, it's true,
and sometimes lost her way,

and deep inside, with each new wound,
her innocence would fade.

The bright white dress she started with
turned brown and black with dirt;

but stuffing each mistake beneath
the tattered mess of skirt,

she shadowed each bright puddle that
the glitter matron left,

the smile dying, eyes near pitch,
a weight within her breath,

and at the end, she found of course
what others had before...

The moon was flat, and held by strings --
a prop and nothing more.

Now at the bank, she finds herself.
You've found it too, my friend.

And here, beneath the broken moon,
our lullaby can end.

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