Bleeding Moon
by: E. A. Bartholomew

A deep, black current stirring
An ocean of blood
The moon falls upon it
Suspended on venial iniquity
Is the cuspent Crescent Blade
The dull reflection stares
Yearning to be divulged
Yet the sinister image repulses
And repels the weary Vagrant

Does he wish it to be his?
Is this the power he sought?
He is afraid of his own wrath
As he cowers beneath the dark blanket
The remnance of light
Sleeping, softly, but not rested
The illuminated disk spirals to his mind
And hovers
A virus of his thought

Neither living nor dead; light nor dark
Neither awake nor asleep
Nothing is real
With the only exception:
His farcical dreams
In the lazy water meadow he awakes
The sun bright upon his face
In the sky, a bird was heard to cry
Icy wind of night, this is not your domain

The semi-sigmoid crest is engraved in his mind
Dull ambient light flows from his brain
The Vagrant is again uneased
His quest for the night trails through the day
An active slumber
A passive sleep, he wanders through fiction
The hunt for reality is won
The dogs are housed, the guns are locked
And the fox is left bleeding by the gulch