One turns and turned, the sights light luminaire...their elevated rights to 'mood', as if, a noir of mortal length, had set a passion here...for just a blink, that any man might stare at something so sublimely wrong but right, as every mothers bairn out there...murders every other mothers kit.
So rare, all come to peer, as if, a mystery of capture'd crime, that every eye had glean'd, or some gods residence been set, with mountains for his couch, his tables and his chair...a place for some divine to hear the sorrow in a dire wolf's chest, as it begins to call from every ridge crest...till the morning's rise.
So then, to gaze, to see it all...pass by mere human eyes, a thrill raise fur, fine as a baby's hair...upon the napes, as sound of distant life perform its fatal air; where time burns down the lair of all concealed things...to death.
Yet no one in the room lament; for, is not known the when or why, or even if...a crime commit, for sacrament of grace might sit upon the desert here...that we are not aware, on this moon hallowed night...for all the creatures feed, and watch the light.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Super moon, google pic
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