Glade By Moonlight

Chill breath hovers over the hallows, I don’t want to press my palm against the waters, troubling their serene facades with the roots of my grief, that rise through my hair in smoke, or furrow the earth in worrisome tread, in my astral somnambulation,

And I grow weary of the mantle a restless fears shadow throws over my shoulders, to harlequin my face with stark whites, tears painted fanciful black, grins stretched beyond the mouth, to drag their crescents across the cheeks, to disguise my weariness,

And the months that peel from underneath my shoe soles forget my face splashed across your rogues’ galleries in corpulent shades, and hands me on to the next to lay its gently aging cobbles, waters stamped by wheels that rupture and wail throughout their long pilgrimages towards the night,

In the distant dust, you'll rise to crook a finger, nailbed moons howling, cracks of damp in the veins of the house, curtains hanging in their tatters of dereliction