A fever dream...

A Seething Scythe


Sunset bleeds in my eyes: I stand
Gazing at dusk’s beet-darkened sky.
Rubies drop on soft, shadowed land.
Why do gore’s gems rain from up high?
Blood falls on each open, cupped hand.
Is someone, something set to die?
See a rising, curved metal band:
I let out a fierce, primal cry.
A silver-tipped werewolf’s claw and
Its hot, smoldering amber eye
Fall toward me like hourglass sand,
Melting liquid mercury dye.
Reach for the severed, silver hand:
Moon above, seething, starts to fly,
A slim crescent descends, wind-fanned,
Slices night air’s red velvet pie.