Midnight Lunacy |
| Over my book |
| the moon rises through the trees, |
| as bright as the searing orange |
| flame of the candle |
| on my mahogany |
| washstand at midnight. |
| On the other side of my window |
| it climbs through the bare |
| black branches and into the star |
| haunted night sky. |
| Pale filaments of light streak |
| the glass panes and drip |
| onto the marble tabletop, |
| eventually blurring |
| the lines of my pages. |
| The book falls to my lap |
| as the moon takes over the story, |
| lending a distinctly lunar |
| look to the high ceilings |
| and heavy brocades. |
| Just a disc of purely |
| illuminated visions.... |
| It fills my windows |
| until I am blind. |
| ©LJ Grandstaff 1987 |
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