Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.

Still,

silence.

Touching

the darkness,

with outstretched

fingertips,

you make

your way.

Will the

noise,

of your

shaking

feet,

finally make

them

move?

Still,

silence.

You wait,

frozen,

within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own

breath.

The smallest

bits of

light,

relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,

still,

silence.

You wait.

 

By the Pale Moonlight

It is the light of the moon

that makes you so beautiful.

Poor Zombie.

Stetched to almost breaking,

only able to make sounds

through rough, sewn lips.

I compliment

to save his feelings.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know.

Winter Night

The white sands,

frozen,

yielding to my footsteps,

a crisp crunch,

water sand,

it wraps wispy hands

around my feet,

as I scatter across it,

hurrying away from

its grasp.

To falter is to

become locked

in time,

a stiff momento.

And as I pass through,

the winds,

my sisters,

sweep away my footprints,

as if I was never there,

I pass, unseen,

unremembered,

or so the winds

imagine,

as they clean

my memory from

the frigid moon shine,

built from tiny stars.

Sweet Song of Liberty

I am blinded by this blizzard,

the methodical winds of tyrants

beat me with their frozen taunts,

For they pretend to own my flesh,

as they dictate my future,

and reconstruct my past

to suit their totalitarian agendas,

The storm rages against my notions

of liberty,

taught to me in classrooms of wax

and glue,

colored string and songs of

beautiful country,

beautiful land,

our land,

your land,

but,

sadly,

no.

I am as free as the fish

in the bowl,

but less wise,

for he knew all along

that his world was made of glass,

and that his last breath

was already measured,

a long,

long,

time ago.

The Gilded Mirror

I sat watching,

quietly,

almost holding my breath

as the grey sledge hammer

swung deftly

towards the gilded mirror.

How the great hammer shown

magnificent,

it’s reflection framed

as it was,

in that great, gold frame,

scrolls dazzling my eyes

as the light bantered playfully,

the glass like a lake,

still and waiting.

The sound so shrill,

as it erupted,

the smashing sang like ripples,

the tinkling shards tiny notes

in a sea that has been blinded,

except for the mosaic,

tiny bits of vision,

that lay at your feet,

remnants of itself.

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.