I felt the wind’s gentle kiss
for the timid candlelight,
an offering to moonlight’s glow
on the dark altar of sorrow,
it’s flame, like my mind, battling
the room’s ghastly shadow.
Or was the kiss meant for the
orphaned page and the lines that
froze on the pen’s dusty edge?
The wind may again blow,
a kiss of death for candle’s glow,
while I, soaking in dawn’s dew,
will dance awkward dances a few.
Under the rain I’ll bow to pain,
tear the page, break the pen.
Redmoon
3 December 2024
Redmoon of Bukidnon likes to describe himself as a trying hard poet.