The Fatal Moon
The lithe traipse of night wind
tingles in my ear with faint secrets
chiming through jacarandas
and June's lavender-strewn grass.
I stand before the fatal moon,
his ivory blood trail lilting on the lake.
We'll both be gone by morning,
he to his desolate canyons
and I to my lonely bed
where I'll awaken
to summer's lambent birth.
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