Bone White Moon
Little stir has the air,
Yet a great noise it makes
as it rattles – like bones –
The leaves on dry 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
Armchair Zen 