Moon rise.

The moon rose like a thin rind that glowed with the dull but sacred luminosity of the much polished silver vessels found in the dim interiors of the sanctum of temples over puffs of slate grey clouds that sailed gently in the huge  blue canvas that was stroked casually and yet masterfully at the horizon with pink and mauve ,by the spurts of rays sent out by the sun,  reluctantly setting ,with its stubborn signature for the day, invading my inner space with a bewitchment that chased the shadows cast within me, as  a wisp of smoke ,dissolved and carried away by the whispering winds.

Is it possible to conjure up this scintillating painting that no human ,how so ever rich and powerful could commission , whenever i slip into dark recesses ,and make me catch my breath once again at my own as well as others insignificance , around me, when elements and forces show the  face of real power .No , that beauty though occurring eternally is but momentary. It cannot be memorised or stored or retrieved. It has to be experienced ,once again all over again.