FerreTrip

Night is not evil. We only think that due to its darkness.
It's easy to forget all the beauty tied with darkness.
Admittedly, the most dangers come in the night, when
predators both man and beast strike out of the murk.
But the night itself is merely the opposite of
day. As day is light, the night is dark.
Light isn't pure. For instance, it's harder to find
things hiding in light than in shade.
Think about it: The only time you expect
an unwelcome visitor is in the dusk.
Light is so holy, but we cannot comprehend it;
if we look straight at it, our vision becomes lost in eclipse.
Light is more frightening, since with its invulnerability
you can find your way in the gloom.
True beauty is a sign of no harm, and light can show
true beauty; however, there is a beauty seen only with darkness.
In the evening, in the cloudless,
in the countryside, in the blackness,
Listen amongst the grass as the nocturnal
little-things sing their song within shadows,
Look up to to find with your own eyes
what

Towering silently over landscape
Majestic dragoness rests comfortably
Her wings curled, unfurled
Letting their sunset drape over the world
A single shack with corral
Its inhabitants unaware
Of paw hanging above
Ready to conquer entire home
Her yellow jaw suggests a smile
Yet she holds her jagged lips steady
As her paw, other resting
Blocking front path
Oxen circle and bleat around fences
Frightened out of small wits
Their elderly owners finally notice something wrong
Gaze out, see what is the matter
Scales and scutes shimmer, beetleback gems
Reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, purples, browns
Muscles displayed proudly in every hue
Burning head to tail amidst fields of color
The humans rush to the window
Freeze—transfixed
Hearts stopped in shock, fear
Hearts stopped in bliss, reverence
She studies the shack with curling tail
Amusement hidden by grace
Contemplating her momentary position
To that within her possession
The oxen consider nothing
Only run and moan in terror
The owner

Ejaculations of melodies from the musicians
Around the city, plump dragons who devour daemons
Who circulated the whole of America
Are not admired. Every beautiful scale
All stone to people not easily satisfied
I need to write a memoir
A brilliant verse, deathless, risks
Flying on the wings of good truth
The destruction of rules
Imagination has placed down
Orpheus breathes over tea with Dante
Music and firearms, imagination and daemons
Each a reconciler for beckoning flat fear
Flowing from his vest: Sparkling blood