Through the inky night,
flies an orange spark.
And then there's darkness
once more.
And then a spray of sparks
arc through the dark.
And then there's darkness
once more.
And then there is a flame,
and darkness is held at bay...
tentatively.
So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
clouds dance around
the gibbous moon’s bright orb,
one warm winter night.
the moon is hazy;
whether it’s the clouds or
my mind, I can’t say.
city, nightfall:
the temple’s fierce creatures
turn nightmare shapes.
The pounding sound of rhythmic drums shatters stillness this eve. I know not whether snares are banged to celebrate or grieve. The pace isn't slow enough to guide a somber procession, nor does it race at the pace of jocular expression. It's a well-kept beat, approaching, that makes the windows shake, but seems suitable only for keeping me awake.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 