Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white―
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring―
down languidly.
I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.
Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid―
poems, working.
Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.
Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.
