Lunacy

from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

With the eddy motion
of autumnal fog -- hushed
as last breath around
the shanks of men -- the
Moon strolls to her apex;
planets are  her path stones.
Her lunette breasts sheathed
in the fabric of lithium clouds,
keened sheer by the West wind,
distract even far flown storm.
Her youth is vibrant;
Kev blue eyes, promethium
skin. Her passage silent;
latria songs marquertied in the
mercerized gown across her thighs.
The radiant goddess of the manes,
and mercurial denizens; who shift
through islands of amber light
and shadows bloated with night;
the hiemal ecosystem of the
streets below.
Those whose lives are ruled by tides,
respect her budding aspect, aware
that these maturing eyes remember
the snarled hours of her crone,
and the ensanguine gown
sometimes worn on nights she
is in bloom; hungry.

Even in her darkest age -- her petals flint,
her brilliance burned -- she entices
latent swells to rise and churn.
Men and women of the tides and sea
have heard the whales sing to
her noir-waters above, twining
the celestial to earth with
bind-song harmonies of worship
and love.
Those of lupine nature are more repine,
knowing all of her aspects are heady and
sublime. The call and howl from deep
wood and vale, for the West wind to
bring her full cloak and hood, to cover
her lunar light and its silver urn, before
the world is warped by the
effusion vapors of quicksilver burn.