Wednesday, August 2, 2017

The Night


















cold and barren,
the windswept fields,
dark
and gray,
in the moonlight
walking,
through wooded
meadows
she calls,
and I must
go,
her voice
beckoning my soul
to come
lie at her
feet;
she washes my face
with raven hair,
wet with teardrops
from things
unseen,
unknown,
in her arms
I know no
Fear;
she is the night,
when she calls
no man
resists her voice,
she is the darkness
living in us
all.
.

.

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