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Waltz of the Waning Moon

In the quiet dusky eve, where shadows merge and weave,
A waning moon begins its climb, in the waltz of the passing time.
Its silver light, a tender sigh, in the tapestry of the sky,
Whispers secrets, old and new, in hues of a chilling, ghostly blue.

Through the boughs of trees, it peeks, playing hide and seek,
With lovers lost in embrace, under its tender, fleeting grace.
Each phase, a chapter closed, in the book of the cosmos,
A tale of ebb and flow, in the silent dance of the afterglow.

Beneath its watchful gaze, amidst the autumn's blaze,
Leaves rustle in a lyrical tune, under the light of the waning moon.
A reminder in the night, of the constancy of change in sight,
As it dims to make way, for the dawn of a new day.

Yet, in its cyclic dance, there's a chance for a fresh glance
At the beauty in decay, the end of another day.
In the waltz of the waning moon, there's solace to be found soon,
In the embrace of the night's cocoon, until the morning's boon.