A pale moon in a blustery winter night
owes much to the hazy screen of the sky,
a great spinner of the mystery images,
can’t get enough rib and bones to celebrate
the missing tiny minutes and seconds.
Form and tone shift quickly from
a soothing dream to the stark reality
of people drawing knives for survival,
it’s what they have learnt to execute
the reason they never needed to explain.
Love, affection, gratitude, fortune - no never,
they are not in elite class or royal ruins,
it seems important as long as they evade
the lofty claim for real art and beauty and
to yield till the last drop of dirty blood.