BY DR. AGONSON
At the rite of the wanning moon, we were silent,
held back by fear under the grotesque masks we wore.
They say the death of light must always be violent,
and yet into my soul those awful, bright eyes bore.
Helpless, there bound and gagged, yet ruthless in his stare,
the youth’s unblinking eyes made us all still as stone.
I dreamed disguise would steel my heart against that glare,
and yet his hateful light pierced deep, unto the bone.
And in the silent night we waited for the dark,
hoping anon some shadow quell the light’s dread spark.
Tale Told 