The Moon, her ivory face tired and tragic,
descends gracefully from her alabaster throne.
The sweet scent of a scarlet rose, caught on a wind
in her raven hair, draws her to a cool, dark garden.
With her back to a vast, glassy lake,
the Moon smiles at the blood-coloured rose,
livened by the Bloom’s crimson passion, and
ensnared by it’s violent thorns.
She picked the Flower, and held it close,
pressed tightly to her ashen bosom.
She climbed slowly to the heavens,
her silver beams reflected on the black lake.
Color flowed into her pallid cheeks, into
her long, thin fingers, where she held the rose
at her fingertips. With the warmth of the
passionate rose, her hair became golden, like honey.
Cold and gray, her light was touched by warmth,
and reflected upon the lake, it seemed like molten
iron. Rich and red, her once-pale lips sighed in
relief, as the Silver Moon became Rosy Dawn.