Aye, that crescent cuts the cloud
with golden slits of predilection
for the fog's encompassing shroud
and a parasol's protection.
The sun's spring-time blooming
auric light nearly blinds my eye
because that beauty's all consuming
with eulogies woven through the sky.
I contemplate the blazing fires
along the razor edge of the sword
slicing thoughts with solar spirals
eliminating the errant, straying word,
and cast back the black magic
of numbed-down confusion
while sharpening my moon sickle
on the whetstone of illusion.