Night I call you
portal of silence

the true divided light
of the moon through
my window leaving

shadows like crosses
of time, that old bandit

on my wall, the panes
stained, broken and sharp.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.

Her blacks crackle and drag.


Sylvia Plath

Calmly
Serenely
The sun slowly subsides
From the still-starless sky
And the moon is still a ghost
A time of mystery and myth
Half-light illusions
Unusual shadows
And strange delusions
When memories and dreams
Wander from one to the other
Blend beyond relevance
And I once remembered
A memory I never had

                                       By Phil Roberts