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Letters From The Fishbowl

The life, times, fiction, and mind-lint of V.B. Rising. Enter at your own risk, traveler, for here there be rants and misplaced modifiers.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Dark Moon

The sky is absent its satellite
and the velvet quiet hangs heavy
over black-cherried grass and trees
and their glowing, animal eyes.
Even the glare of the snow is banked
and the chuckle of the stream at the Crossroads
is jaded, the laugh of the oldest woman at a dying party.
As the hours dim, an electric aura ignites the air,
a slow and lurking burn,
as hot as the scrape of ice when it draws blood
to mark the stones below.

I lower my eyes
and I touch the ground
and my fingertips spark
and my bones root deep
as I breathe in the Night.
There is a touch on my brow,
and my mouth opens, and my womb.
The dark slides in and fills me,
and it expands, that blackest place in my throat and belly,
and it sizzles and spreads in my flesh,
and it awakens what it finds
and coaxes it up to a roar in the blood
that beats its fists
to break free from the surface of my skin.

The world is dark.
And I am dark,
and I quake and hum
as if I am twisting in sheets.
I hear a voice
and a catch of claws
and the rock of an empty cradle.
The air is rent and whipped,
by sword and scale.
I am silk and steel.

I do not open my eyes
where the black within pulses pounding half-light against the lids.
And I am not afraid.
And she has come.

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