In sheeted twisting,
dark down crypt.
Under the turn of
gloom’s binding wraps,
black wings beat
their night tattoo.
To wake and struggle
in sleeping tangle.
Monochrome’s long,
terrain holds dark
shadow pools.
In these pitch waters,
futile dreams swim.
Large patterned
moth, my own terror.
On dusty wings
I call you to flame.
A wooden box
then you and I
can sleep.
In dust and web I wake.
For in morning light
left in yellow shine,
I see an empty wooden box.
©️ Dai Fry 26th June 2020
Rewritten 19th October 2020.