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howling at the moon

5 October 2010

a dark stain on the waning moon
winter comes all too soon
for the son of time, lost on time’s stream
a song for young lovers, pluck’d on harp strings
cold and barren, autumnal harvest moon
‘he that pays the piper, calls the tune’
or so the saying goes; yet in autumn heather
birds of a feather hang together
off a gibbet packed with a murder of crows
and on and on the boy rows
in silence, hoping to reach the lands
where men may work without their hands
never dreaming, does he, that such a place
is forsaken and lonely–it has not face,
nor heart, nor soul, nor love.
thus trades a son his inheritance from above
for the pottage of prosperity, to howl at the moon.


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