mah maou

So you’ve missed your boat, Prophet;
speak to us now of waiting.

The moon’s howling wolves among us.
Cold tidal pocket pool abandoned.
The hand of Death awaiting.

Silent as Eurydice:
muted strings of the heart pulled asunder,
the moon’s howling wolves among us,
the hand of Death awaiting.

And as the tallest trees grow not far apart,
nor in the shade of each other:
speak to us now of waiting.