Red Moon Rising

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 8Kays “Red Moon”

the dead of night
a peaceful time
by all accounts
when tucked up in our bed sheets tight
the sun has done its circadian chores
bled slowly away
as it does every day
and it’s usually right about now
that the stars come to play
or at least
that is traditionally the way

not however at the end of this day’s fraying tether
for this night the sky is clear
much to my fear, dread and displeasure
the red moon rises east of home
it sits alone
as one is known to do in view of quiet contemplation
yet there is nothing silent of its fevered scarlet glow
as it builds to a crescendo
gory spill in flamenco
mindless memento in tempo of violence
this trident that taps on my window this night

please excuse me if i act a little timid
repercussion is the one thing i’m reluctant to envisage
i dare not glance outside
and believe me i have tried
but it’s pushing my revulsion to the limit
each fabric of the wool it dies
denies my stalling stride
and i cannot guarantee it will not stab my tired eyes blind
dead set am i to testify it is this way inclined
bloodlust i must respectfully decline

you see, it is time-honoured tradition that the red moon is commissioned
for the nights when hills run red
for fear and dread to beg permission
under its tuition
all suspicious minds forgiven
for denying core cognition
heading straight for supposition
getting high on vile emissions
leads to spiteful repetition
with no writ of prohibition
as it slits throats for the fun of it
doubles up the pain
then makes a run for it

what becomes of those afflicted would depend
on how we choose the next few hours to spend
how speedy the descent
into the depths of senseless chaos
for the colour red captures the pathos of danger
turns fair weather friends into wayfaring strangers
as rage then upstages
any claim to disengage
before it pours into our gaping veins and claims us
the only saving grace is daylight
not to say it aims to play nice
to make right atrocities committed
should bloodlust prove horribly addictive
have seen first-hand what it makes people do
and it truly is dishonourably wicked

alas, things haven’t gone quite as predicted
didn’t know the sickness was so lived in
that dirty work would prove to be so horribly addictive
anything to satisfy these twitches
gratify the bloodlust of the witches
in the flames of Samhain
my last sane remain evicted
as red moon rising
claims its latest victim

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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