Harbinger
The moon . . .
hazy yellow crescent sliver
haunting the sky,
whispering in forgotten tongues,
"Where dost the wayward wander?"
Trekking the road of fallen stars,
lost in the shadows and silver thread,
withdrawing from thrumming touch.
Ivory sentinel,
cold as diamond fire,
melting in the heat of glacial space,
alone before countless gaze,
seeking freedom in bondage-
solace in servitude-
clad in black vinyl.
The moon shudders . . .
Gina Santamaria
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