Slipped,
between
creased corners
of Night’s gossamer,
Moon,
timid & shy,
slips
softly
in –
which hour,
come,
and
gone,
shall magic
come
again?
wicked
wholesome deeds await
lovers,
and children,
and all that fall between.
Come
&
Fly,
my little devil,
Heaven awaits.
theDeprevation 