The Cows of Night

July 11, 2015 - Poetry

Homeless dance the pastures green;
free of dusty bonds or slavers mean.
The fields all glow with warm moonlight
the day I feign embrace my Lady Night.
Tho’ dark and thick as ink or embers cold,
her locks prss down with heat untold.
The latter end of sweet emptiness
goes to touch her saintly tress.

In peace she waits impassive.
Dead to my pleas wrought whole in massive
sorrow, I find my need to pass
the chance to cut the veins of tainted grass.
Lady Night n bland triumph takes my hand,
cold and trembling, where a good man
can see the sharp grass that poisoned cows,
and view skulls of broken vows.

The death fields above me soar
and stagger, then rise to flight once more.
I, with grace my cold libation
lat at the alter of her damnation.
I’ll not be taught to sing the silent death
song through bleak mankind’s breathless breath.
Night and those whose blackness round her shines,
with my fields of patient kine,

ponder the chance life has laid,
to give each of us a place pre-paid,
and we say “no,” or so it seems,
until sweetest Night and I dream our dreams.

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