Poetry

Unshackled, the pallor moon
was lying still, in a white-
shroud of clouds, only face
visible, staring-
down languidly.
 
I have come afar,
from the whispering dark,
to annul my existence.
 
Your hands tremble,
carrying your name. The
magic of unsaid-
poems, working.
 
Life had been a Medusa.
The blues, the reds, the
greens, overbearing.
 
Scores will be settled
when moon,
goes down.