Deep in the stillness,
I wander but a ghost thru mists of shadow & sanguine ..
And the trees bathe in the mystique of Night’s serenade
Covet thee my love immortal,
for we are hunters of a dream untamed;
poetry bleeding into the abyss ...
Candle whispers drink a sky of wine, unto where I sojourn —
in the caress of your lips, and ache of darkest Moon
— Arthur Crow © 2013