Plenty of Quiver
The shadow pyramids
of the tree pointing
its tendrils looneyerly lunarly
a moon bow
dipping its face
on the blackened limbs
The haloed hallowed moon
sneers as the stars try to distract
Shadow people seem to hide in the corners
fingertips on lips
and eyes tightly shut
chill feels its way down the spine
and shoulders have no bow
but plenty of quiver
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