The white owl-

wounds the silent, milky night

with its screech and growl.

Long, black grasses stained with red-

and disheveled by scurrying feet

shiver in cold wind-

carrying carrion smell,

while a  crowd of insomniac words flicker

on ivory page

in a dance.



Posted for dVerse Poets Pub ~ Quadrille #36 hosted by Grace


Shared with Poetry Pantry #365 @ Poets United