A Wrong Turn

The Contract

Night’s assassin drew back her veil of sleep

and mist and star-strewn velvet.

In dawn’s soft folds she hid her blade,

keen-edged light burned bronze,

and scored with need and jealous wish.

A certain set of smile and eye she wore,

questioning and answering,

and the comfort of our silence fell lost.

Still, you and I, we bid her cease, or wait, but

Time bought her long ago

and now she knew no

other price or need.

Vainly, then, you begged her leave, depart,

and when I sighed you knelt, and wept,

and railed against the fading of

our broken shadows.

She held him as he bled those hours,

laughter soaked upon her blue-clothed breast,

her shroud a place to rest his weary head.

We saw them both, entwined, and

knew her too, breath heavy with

lavender and the musk-scent of sadness.

It comes each time,

to friend and lover:

that prick of conscience,

our bitter sting.

And then we see her, also,

dread and glorious Morning,

Night dead and a dreamer dying,

all clear in definition,

the terrible geometry of Truth

revealed in bladed-ray and want

and leaving.