Soft through lightless boughs becomes too late
the sickly truth of man’s true form—beneath
what grace insinuates for his dark fate—
and, fallen, trips the echo-haloed wreath.
Upon horse-headed form his wand’ring eye
comes staring through the glass to find its prey,
and finding none whose name would satisfy
is drawn away to scythe another day.
He waits in low-hanging halls so distant,
yet listens with piqued ear and blackened heart
to retain his lover’s cry persistent,
and tarry coldly upon her warm hearth.
Ah! the silence in the mystic night creeps—
alone, heartbroken, he silently weeps.
-Kaitlyn Medina [4/14/08]