drawn pale moon blind
reflected in black waters
the mirror of which
they did call you their
beloved moonchilde
do you remember?
do you recall?
before the wheel
was sent spinning?
knots and lace
tarot and song
petals on sheets and
myrrh in our hair...
come for me under night
the one once called
beloved moonchilde
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we lost those
flowers in our hair
when winter winds
stole our breath
and turned our
hearts to stone
i have been sitting
for so long under
apple trees waiting
for fresh blossoms
to fall
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Yesterday, I made a veiled reference to two songs on my mind at the time that I wrote Between Shadow. And while they do not exactly fit in with the criteria that I’ve set out for myself in this series (non-English, strike; new to me, strike, darkwave/coldwave/synthwave, strike), I thought that I might as well include them for readers so that the reference isn’t lost on them.
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a hilltop kiss
above old creek wending,
tangled of vale
all grains gone gold
in autumn hours with
a sun hung low
burning within, without
you whisper a secret
for me to keep
my head on your breasts,
slumber come tomorrow
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I often wonder lately if it is my shadow drawing me into dance and embrace, if the million mile journey is here in my heart and conventional wisdom would say that I never need leave home. I give my shadow name, because a shadow should not remain without a name just because it refuses to share one.
“Scáthach,” I whisper and it just laughs and twirls away. The mistress of shadows, in the castle of shadow, from an island far, far away. It is neither denial or affirmation, and I do not have the energy to play a neverending game of warmer and colder. If it is just my shadow, it would likely care less how it is named.
But I need a name and so give it one.
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