Call it in the howl of the moon

 

is it there the blind eagle soars?

 

For do we see the mystic scythe that draws us near like liquid light?

 

Do we draw or do we flee?

 

Do we truly want to find the power in the eyes

 

to

 

                 find

 

its will to have its sight?

Blind and scared do the fires strum.

In hectic cry our makers run.

Clay in the beginning and rock in the end     fall and see the withered skin.

Place a hand and watch it turn, true in speech and false in form.

Whisper fake and yell in bliss,

kiss the nail that strikes its niche

Can we call the winters rain?

Shall we mistake the frozen stain,

To bind the soul to the trees and watch the years come to ease,

In there does it have time to sink to earth and find its sunken blame.

We do not see the part where eagles cry nor the place wolves die?

We see the sun in the heavens light and the moon in the fateful night

But in the howl to the moon we’ve seen nothing for it’s true.

Where do our eyes lie when night comes to behold?

To the fallen sky or distant memory?

 

 

September 23, 2012