See the silver moon through the trees,
but don’t open the gates that lead to the dark forest.
I forget what the outside’s like;
in the twilight, hear the groans of the dying.
They claw at the gates, fingernails breaking.
They are not supernatural or beasts or animal-men,
they are just the unfortunates.
In this commune, this aged mansion of the lucky ones,
we pray for the outside.
Advertisements
