I have slipped between the shadows,
beneath the watchful eye of night,
dancing in chiaroscuro,
a Whirling Dervish’s delight.
Having felt the ghosts lingering
in mnemonic desert perfumes,
haunting, the windblown mandalas,
I stroll as cactus flowers bloom.
In the flickering of starshine,
Night birds sing a mournful refrain
a song to make the Angels weep,
beseeching the moon to remain.
Distant and celestial altar,
rises and sets, waxes and wanes,
coaxing tidal exigencies,
the Poorwill crying out its name.
~
M. Zane McClellan
~
Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved

Advertisements