The Moon Has Written Silence
The moon has written silence,
Into every heart below,
The sleeping land,
Wherein I stand,
By spectres manned,
With curses planned,
Such sadness to bestow.
The tree in mournful twistedness,
The mist dispersed throughout,
The lunar rim,
In ghostly vim,
Presenting grim,
A doleful whim,
Familiars devout.
The cat in silhouetted shape,
The nightjars in array,
The twilight drapes,
Bring shadowed shapes,
Abysmal scapes,
As midnight capes,
Bereavement of the day.
The enigmatic artistry,
Presented by the sky,
The silver fade,
Like ghosts arrayed,
Somehow dismayed,
In woe displayed,
Enigmas to the eye.
The absolute desertedness,
The loneliness profound,
The dewy grass,
As hours pass,
The comfort sparse,
A sullen class,
Of torment o’er the ground.
The overtones of hellishness,
The lightlessness of doom,
Devoid of mirth,
A bitter dearth,
Upon the earth,
Upon the firth,
Uncompromising gloom.
And I am but a spectre too,
Enveloped by demise,
Divorced from love,
From God above,
A stranded dove,
In straits whereof,
I sink with blemished eyes.
