A tempest thorn and tempered storm
are hallowed, sacred at night.
But come the morn else flock with fawn a dragon breaths fire and ice.
What without these twinkling stars can ere else be fallen with light?
The day is long and sombre,
each whisper spoken in flight.
With a flick of a thumb,
a smile becomes numb
and a frown begins to spread.
"Your heart my dear" the broken moon said,
"has whispered its joys to me".
And from his words a ribbon was spun twixt finger of virgin blood.
Although the dream would linger the night was soon but fled.
All to soon the dragon roared
"Awaken child, the song must have its end"
then ribbon was all but thread.
Andrew Nixon