Armchair Zen

Bone White Moon

Little stir has the air,

Yet a great noise it makes

As it rattles – like  bones –

The dry leaves on skeleton trees.

A veil of vapor rises

From a bog not far away,

Like a specter drifting skyward,

Aloft on nightly haunts.

Underfoot the leaves crunch,

Arid and bleached,

Like the dry, taut skin

Of rigor mortis.

Alone in the sky flies a

Bone White Moon,

Peering out from behind

Passing shrouds.

Silent, and steadfast,

As The Reaper.

———————–

Photo Supervisor

Happy Halloween!

Seek peace,

Paz