She only makes music under the snow moon
in shadow, sharp needle towers pointed skyward,
can’t puncture her tunes.
A glow cast equally on the tulip tree
and the panther’s pelt as he lingers nearby
stalking her latest melody.
Oh, sweet Selene, pearl in the sky,
hand over light for the maiden to spy
the gleeful ivories amidst a mustache disguise.
Her tones moan through midnight,
until the bubble gum sun attempts a coup;
her ebony sentinels stand true,
with starry swords to pop any uprising
before twilight is through.
© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved
Inspired by the artwork of David Dabalo.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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