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