poem for a day

The call


I am late,
flitting through midnight streets
flapping my arms in the caustic fumes
emanating from the factories
of damnation

The full Moon
gazes down through a nebulous
shroud at the city, my city
I run and do not tire to the Hill
of stones

Before the stones
a shuffling crowd
a swell of chanting
my name, and me at last
passing through

Torches, a shout
a parting of the haze
I gather myself and rise
up onto the stone and look
upon them

They clamor
I can't hear their words
I hear only the Moon
I feel only the pulse of Her
It is time, I fly up to meet Her
with joy

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