Luna

The waxen moon that hound-haunts steps,

That bites–blurred shadows–at the back of tired travellers,

And instills indeed–within rippling pools like ebony–black on black

So that each viewer’s heart–cut now apart–wails.

The iris shrinks aghast–broken by that strange vision–at the spectre,

Clutch at it with hands and the possessed now finds

His chest splitting asunder–of the mind through the eyes of the heart.

The mind can bend–images like Hell in fire, ghost, and marble–

Running through the weary searchlights–and yet none is real

Or all is and solidity is but an illusion of truth–black on black–

A sickness consumes the scattered remnants of peace and understanding,

For too many questions remain–the mind sinks deep into the pool–

Watched by the white-veiled woman who but touches top–no blood–

The eyes deceive–liars even in the sunlight of noon–the Great Eye judging–

Yet still what walks–along the rim, in periphery and not in view–

There is nothing there when the head turns–like the world–

And the heart–well the heart is truth of eyes and lies–

But not Truth, not the name, the denotation logged in the tome–

Not that tome’s truth which is but the sole absolute–yet it lies, too–

The heart is pure truth, in that it is our truth–it is the moon–

Black on black that tells of the white-veiled woman who

Has no blood and stands upon the pool watching her reflection–

Turn the head–like the world–to see the mind

Through eyes and she is gone–like Hell and the fire–

Forever cast in marble is this token thing in the hardened heart

Of travellers such as these–black on black with the waxen moon.