Quescent Moon

As the red feather wanes on the horizon’s ponderous verse





The quivering quill finds my hand after day’s golden signature.

For tonight this sharp point tears through the velvety petal









A Lustrous liquid drips along the crescent gash on this dark creature.





And with winds needle and thread the scar has healed to a fine lead.








A following night and the lunar feather forbears a mass of black serpents.

It falls, drifting, as if in joyous dance returning to my hand.



Upon this night my thoughts are weaving together in tentative silhouettes.






Another night that glowing bird has spread its wings upon the night.

Brightening shaded Regions, as I recall the trot of the blazing quill.

Pages full to the brim with the moon’s hypnotic punch.






Then out of the gloom these fearful feathers have now flown atop








The highest tower in the king’s city. The black parade approaches.

Afterwards a night the sinister raven emerges stealing those celestial pens.

There follows a night of remorse as the silver eyelid drops a milky tear.

Afresh and neophyte night, however blank now upon the mind’s scaffold,

I see the phoenix’s beak, shining like the tip of my pen, a perilous plight,

To return the quill back into the wandering eye at midnight.

Before such arrival, a blinding darkness shadows pages of night adventure

Until the phoenix perches back upon the horizon’s first verse.