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La Petite Mort

de Argyle Goolsby

September pressed her muscles deep into august's heart.
Compressed her summer wings until they splintered cold and sharp.
That season brings a maiden raven-haired.
Spinning in failed attempts to free herself from despair.

And I say, I wanted her madly, but sadly she belonged
To the shadows of night
To the shadows of night
A loose thread of stars sewed up the night in cryptic patterns of light.
The moon cast an ether glow upon her face.
I watched it trace her hollow outline like the hands of a gifted God.

And I say, I wanted her madly, but sadly she belonged
To the shadows of night.
To the shadows of night
Betrothed to borders. Blind to me.
Her reedlike movements
Will await the beast so limitless and free in the
Shadows of night.

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