Richard Pierce

Poetry

She

The moon, steeped in old blood,
Sighs below the horizon, waiting,
Waiting for the sun,
Opposite axis,
Opposite pole,
Opposing light.

She moves, airless,
Anticipates,
A rock for a heart,
The warmth to melt it,
To feel again.

For one brief history,
She smiles brightness,
Then the yellow crescent falls.

Her blood seeps now, thick
From her cratered wounds,
And drips as dew onto the blue
Below.

R, 03/10/2015

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