The moon rose like a portent of
Doom for those blind as I
Who bereft of light and unpolluted mind
Roamed grief-stricken and bare
Neath Luna's spiteful glare
In wood and mire like a dire vampire
A ghoul wanton and wayward
Knowing not toward what I flew
Whereupon I come upon
A mere of black icy water
That sung to me as strongly as
Its liquid that stung me as I imbibed
A psychopath's dream drew me in
Down to the depths of malice and sin
Wherein I found a vigour much older than sin
A voice spoke with sibilant note
From that black water under the gleaming moon
Gave me a vision enwreathed in fire
And in my hand all that to which I aspired
M. M.
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