The wind swoons against the curtains
All my hopes seem vain.
The gathering force of the day reduced
to a middling drip on my window pane.

The dreary night seeps into my bed chamber
with its soppy evening air.
Deepening the gloom beyond the frosty glass at which I stare.

Little moon, you were radiant to a young inquiring mind.
Now the scars on your face seem imposing and unkind.

Up against cold space,
I approach her, gargantuan, vast.
Like an enigma slowly revealing itself
from the cruel vantage point of the past.

A young girl by pale moonlight,
asleep with frozen essence.
The chill lashes her brow and cheek,
like a memory stamped on a mind fluorescent.

Pale, perfect, she is a frozen vision.
Her visage one of horrible precision.
Like a snowflake formed in mind’s December,
that ignites in me a morbid ember.

Her lips are rouge, moist, and slack.
Her hair falls in frail deluge.
Yet her helplessness is a mirage,
an aspect of a diabolical collage.

On a clear dark evening,
or a robin’s egg afternoon.
Peering up I see her,
cradled in that graceful tomb.

Upon her neck there is a pendant,
that light momentarily catches.
Revealing an image inside reflected,
insinuates itself in my perception.

There it is unmistakable,
inside a jewel unbreakable.
As the wind whispers a dying tune.
Intriguing me as I look closer,
a fingernail-sized crescent moon.