Beneath a burnished bronze, midnight moon
the darkness lies in wait beside the stars
and ivory horses gallop through the dunes.
Amidst the fumes of gas-doused cars
the cityscapes rise into the sky.

A bitter past is cast in golden clouds;
their linings blackened, tar smeared, filth,
stolen wealth, seared by scars, by burdened faith,
adrift upon the ebony landscape,
ensnared within the branches and the leaves.

Nets of spider-silk spiral out upon the wind
and capture in their sticky, silver threads
the void in which the darkness comes to hide,
where naught but ragged shadows now reside,
and twine them tight together, while torn apart.

Death's scythe, born on the barren breeze,
wends amongst the stars, amongst the dreams.
It wields a deadly, searing, flesh-ripped breath
upon the shadow's dark and tortured cleft
until the light, once bound, soars skyward.

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