When the sun goes down, is when the moon comes out,
Fantasy shadows then abound, all around with no doubt.
The tree's tops all provide, projecting limbs each collide,
Casting the wild shadowy shapes, on the road all about.
Shadowy shapes play, all across the lawns, as their bed,
While the golden moon lights up their way, all are spread.
Those creeping silhouettes, as their fingers are on display,
Digital artwork to be so flourishing, all on a canvas of grey.
Moon shadows, dark columns, as veins on a graph, displayed,
Running about on their wall of granite, as by a geyser sprayed.
Demarcations to be as proof, a powerful light source so shines,
Graceful imprint on sands of time, as a gentle reminder defines.
A special blend of all that's natural, as its source, it does present,
Only when a figure clothed in blacks, may a contradiction invent.
Imprints of man, its harsh portraiture, destroys the creations there,
Savior or destroyer, choices to be made, without any room to spare.