Monday, December 7, 2015

Ancient Day

Stone and vines and
veins green with mold
and rust.  Watch high

and white fangs emerge
from their cave of lips
and neverending pits.

Take wing, dark one.
Three terrified flee
over stone square and

embattlements deserted.
A vast ocean of moss
spreads to the horizon

when the being is
realized.  Legends churn
over a red half-moon;

an eye.  Of dark the
willow weeps, like those
below.  Arms to the

sky-gray sun and cracked
towers of fear.  Windows
break.  Jump now or

forever speak no more
of this gate.  Chased to
the edge, the portcullis

dried under claws.
Something fell into the
gray-green plane of mist.