Blood Moon
In the cooling from a burning August day,
I was hushed in the darkness,
before I ventured to fancy-
above my screen window was her-
a looming blood moon.
Of the world's woes she bled,
as shooting stars arced in a freedom
that time cannot capture.
In those precious hours I yearned for
a dreamful sleep.
Yet the mischievous schemes of
wily ghosts delayed my slumber's
imaginings.
As I bade them to leave, the blood moon,
the very orb of crimson mysteries,
rose to her sorrowful heights.
Ascending to the highest thrones of
the singing saints,
is the sacredness of Heaven's
untroubled realm.
Here is the Steadfast One,
O Christ,
Who weeps in the Goodness of
His Light.
He's so weary of humankind's
wretched wars and violence.
The wounded blood moon bids
to console Him,
but the wars rage on and on. ~
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