Bad Day Moon

Cats go out then cry to come in. A runt-end of shade wilts. We feel the pull of a Lunar tide, sense the off-center mewing, of a dissonant aria. Trembling dogs hide their body-bones. The air is strained through fisheyes. A clammy light gnaws, while white-faced mice scurry on twilit paws. There will be an end of sorts, a draining away. First, there must be, this ailing after-glow, an infiltration that wounds the tender skin of reason. A mad moon had broken lose, from the cellular jails of fitful thoughts. A dead Siren rampaged, in a cold rage of silence. The day may heal, a new dawn, defeating all spectral trails, all night-walking fears. Until then we must watch a pall-bearing dusk depart on crumbling stilts, observe from a dwindling distance, a naked crone wanes, turns in ever narrowing circles, as she seeks for her life.