Poem -

Moonlit Sestina

Moonlit Sestina

Let’s burn away, into dusk-red tinctured night;
when the city lamps are soft-yellow quiet,
and the only sound comes from a nature-made wind.
When children walk home dreary,
wearing breakable trousers over skin smooth as wool is soft.
Naively unconcerned with protecting their dreams.
 
It gnashes at my spine, this hunger for dreams,
and the rush of my blood calls for a hunt on this night.
So out of the darkness I creep, my paws soft;
control in my snarl, to keep my teeth quiet.
For I’ve slept through the day to avoid being dreary,
and I mask my dark howl with the pitch of the wind.
 
So they feel the chill in their spine but only blame the wind.
They quicken their pace and try to cling to their dreams,
but their grip is loose, their hold affected and dreary.
The aura that comes from the depleted state of the night.
Ha! They seek to sneak past, as they keep their heart quiet,
but I can smell its deep beat no matter how soft.
 
And as my teeth sink, their grip will not be as soft.
I shall evoke suffering and force, like tempest wind;
and drain all the voice from their throat, till quiet
again, entraps their now lackluster dreams.
As I find such a fitting end to this night
I shall return home, no longer dreary.
 
But I’ve looked ahead of myself and it’s made my focus dreary.
They've pattered away and their scent is too soft.
I feel a sigh of relief that no harm came from this night,
but still, I feel the urge flow through my veins like the wind.
My mind again sways to their dreams,
which I wish to devour so my craving grows quiet.
 
But the sun is now rising and my growl it’s now quiet.
I rush the path home while my legs become dreary.
I lay my head down in bed and the sun warms my dreams.
My mind becomes human, my eyes become soft,
my hair now seems loving as it swims in a fans wind.
I thank God again that I’ve survived this long night.
 
For in a soft whispered tone, a dreary wind once warned me;
"don’t eat their young dreams or you’ll never be free.
These are your quiet days of reflection, till penance is paid".

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