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    submitted 15 March 2005 @ 20:07
    edited 07 December 2005 @ 11:16

Morrow Moon Maiden

Written by Jack Morris
Rating: Enjoyable (3.5) (3.5 rating, 2 ratings)

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Ever the morrow moon,
with her soft silken shades of hair,
casting their pale light into present day.

I see this winsome maiden,
upon the corners of my horizon,
rangy and luxorious in motion.

Glimmering an ancient softness,
that, has bent the eyes as such as mine,
for an eternity uncounted.

And, I ask of her,
to come more,
hither unto the focus of my sight,
so that I may behold the illustrations of her beauty.

For it seems,
ever I turn my gaze,
ever she hastens to the corners of my vision,
and my heart falls to foul depressions.

Yet anon,
immediately upon my verses,
I feel her galvanic touch upon my arm,
this glorious creature of twillight rays,
of sunset marvel,
slides her lips to the shoreline of my ear,
whispering the futures of days,
and that which lies between.

She tells me of her hearts desire,
bidding me to not turn my gaze upon her.

Yet in this time another creature seems to have found my other ear,
a sort of self inflicted foul thing,
making only gluttural sounds and fell swallows,
it halves my attention,
as the thing incoherently mumbles words,
bitter words of dark magic,
so unlike the winsome maiden,
whose touch firms upon my arm.

It is here I find my awareness torn,
bound upon either side,
the maiden divination against one ear,
and the interrupting evil at the other.

Yet I know the darkness to be that born of pride,
and darker roads traveled,
that the creature speaks in it's foulness,
because it's heart is diseased,
a hand naught having held it,
to stay it's progress.

It is a thing of misscomunication,
misunderstanding of the symbols,
ever to come, and hence already played.

The winsome maid of the moon's hold upon my arm,
is her boon of hope,
and it is in this instant of acknowledgement,
that I know,
the whispers in my ear of the same mistress.

That morrow moon maiden,
holds within her locks,
stark black spiders with poisin in their fangs,
black widows that have webbed from hair on the wind,
onto my host looking body.

It is one that whispers in my other ear,
and my gaze cast forth forward,
onto the horizon,
perceives a multitude of orange poppies,
in the twillight of the coming night.

I wish perhaps a throng of crickets,
warriors with minstrel legs could come to my rescue,
from the feild before me,
so I call to them in tounges lost to the world,
verses laced with the clear reflections of pools.

Hinder the singing throng of old ones come,
their legs pursuing with violin tingles,
the whipsers of their enchantments.

Yet the black widows have already dived their fangs,
massed themselves with great dark patches over my body,
and here my story was to end.

The crickets still to battle the widows,
martial arts, kung fu masters,
these crickets of the poppies,
with swift kick and razor sharp legs,
they assualt the many legged women of darkness.

There are no arachnids who can stand against,
these mighty grasshoppers,
when spider spits webs,
crickets hop,
when spider closes,
crickets slash with razor legs,
the work of an hour footss stomping,
taking place in minutes.

Yet the banners of victory,
upon this orange feild of poppy and twillight,
raise not into glorious calls and declarations,
for that body in which,
the spiders in the hair of the morrow moon maiden,
had poisoned,
lay still and cold to the touch,
a mass of darkened meat,
unfit for the digestion of the soil.

So the crickets held council with the winsome lass,
seeking the story of the spider war,
the origin of poisons,
yet she wom had spoken of the future,
held no words for the present,
or the past.


She stood silently near the crumpled form,
eyes wide and lacking the moisture of tears,
rechristened she was,
re-born to a world of the present,
while the crickets composed thier ballads,
to the fallen comrade of words,
her hand that had been upon his arm,
remained outstretched,
and inwardly she feared,
the man whom she had whispered,
had been broken by her tongue.

Yet the cricket sages,
reproached her saying,
that the line was not broken,
for from the songs of the crickets,
their ballads and tales.

One day another would walk the orange feild,
beckoned to the rock that would be made of the fallen,
and there in that time her hold would not bare ill.

So now once in every month the moon does not shine,
upon the earth,
the morrow moon maiden visits the feild,
waiting to reclaim her love,
and some tommrow she will again,
open her eyes to the twillight sky.



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