A wolf cries for the goddess of the night
in the distant hallows of sound,
yet reality's claws rips fantasy with fright
and dreams between its teeth, ground.
Still the dark of death has not yet settled
for dusk still bleeds,
the scarlet tears into lakes and rivers and seas mingled
like wrists slit to sign creeds.
Pain is not to last long
for time heals the slights
and mourning should turn to song,
but the days will die and so will lights.
Night approaches the threshold of time
and heaven's wounds are healing
in a show so sublime,
one notices not the danger's gleaming.
Finally the light gives up life.
The final breath slips out from it's husk.
Ominous and eerie, night's knife
plunges into the heart of scarred dusk.
Copyright © Robyn Thomas