and the night takes all, my dear.
and you are left empty.
silence is everything, my dear.
no sounds, no touches
on your skin ivory.
and as your hair becomes alive
in light of flaming torches,
the ghosts asleep for aeons long
might on this night awake.
an elegy of night, fulfilling,
takes place of a guiding hand.
beware, my child, of silent moon,
for he must always lie.
Desmond Blaine's Other Poems
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