Lo, the whispering followed night sent black
To gather dreams from subconscious deepened
By shallow aberrations without fact,
Unduly brow beaten, nightmare cheapened

Without fruition of gargoyle wingings;
Proof, once again, ideals are fantasy,
Expounded by angels silent singings
Into the exhalations of angsty

Perditions of a single mind loosely
Beckoning eternity to enslave
Belittled equation of Time’s noose, be-
Longing to all but hoarded by enclave

That sings and wings above heads of brazen
Sorts, not that which composes the craven.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
12/6/03 Copyright 2003 ©