A long week, but it's over, and I'm rolling in single digits now. A foxtail moon rides the sky low, near the horizon in a dull, ember orange. Dreams cling close to earth this night, sleep light, for morning dawns not nigh. Fae is ever near when the moon's not half ours. Only a sliver sits here, gibbous there, and whether waxing, waning, a crimson moon bears its will in midnight tides.
It's a song, don't you see? A song singing itself from creation's morn until destruction's eve, and into fall. It's a siren song into love and devastation. A nail lune, fingers buried deep into the sky, a golden yellow lulling me to sleep.
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