The tentacles of darkness stretch across the land,
but it is not night that is at hand.

Slowly, but surely the darkness wins,
across dead soil with no winds.

Then the dark changes before my eyes,
to something unworldly - the ancients had cried.

Plato, Gutenberg, Hercules, and Wolf may be red,
but it is not these I mourn as dead.

I shiver and shake while the world slumbers,
but it is they who miss the wonder.

Only 8 tetrads to occur in the century 21,
so I don't know if I will see another one.

No Facebook, Instagram, or headline news,
can compare to seeing my muse.

Only my eyes see it from this spot on Earth,
only my brain will remember the moon's rebirth.

From light to dark to blood and back,
it is something to remember when I fade to black.

The limbs of light fight back the dark across the land,
but it is not day that is at hand.