Fair lady who is called
The sower of fates
Whether seeds shall germinate
Is left up to more than fate
Revelations given from beyond
The lifted veil within the dawn
Of rising suns and dying moons
Stealth winds that creep
Over the sands of dunes
Her faceless form in huddled pose
She is the black rose
Against the prick of thorns
Stirring in the veins of gathering storms
In lightnings that shall leap
From rooftop to rooftop
As burning incense that will not keep
It smolders incessantly
Continuing in spite of the incertitude
Of time that suspends itself
Which proceeds in slow motion
Mulling over in the minds of many
Under a dying moon that glows with rage
~Moses~
© 2007 Moses Lestz - All Rights Reserved
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