Oh, the night hunters set sail on the sky,
their talons extended like glinting disciples
in search of new converts to part from their lives,
as if they had ever elected to die.
And the wind spits the clouds at the face of the moon,
like cotton wool asthma, hoary and grey,
but the rock doesn't care as it hangs silver ice
descending upon my dark passage so soon.
From this life to the next will my heart never learn
with it's feeling and fibre bled dry and destroyed,
scouring life in a desert of cactus and sand
where the heat of dead passion is all that may burn?
And the day becomes night and the night becomes me
as a scream of coyotes rip chills through my spine,
though the hackles may rise, I cannot follow suit
only grieve for a love that is ceasing to be...
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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