A blackness spills over,

thickening upon the edge

of the valley.

A spider, somewhere,

waits with silent breath

for the kill.

A moon rises above the clouds,

silver light mute

among the shards of darker night...

the splayed hands of trees

reach upwards

into the whispers of cruel wind,

where the moon,

lost in shades of red,

swelters as if in deepest heat.

Yet it is only the maroon

of a blood-lit night,

a blackness spilling over into my hair

like your spider webs,

tracing silver strands across my cheek,

where the red has come and gone.