Grieving Gibbous How is it that shaded sunbeams can pound into blanched skin, not to caress but to pierce with hostility? Though the stone hearth provides warmth, there are no splintered logs crackling. Instead, silent ashes wane like the grieving gibbous. How is it that lovers can be so cruel in our dreams? What should shine brightly seems only to reflect misty grays. It has been said that true beauty remains everlasting, and yet I awake hotly from envisioning such a chill.
Browning Blair
Liz’s Love
Sydney Lykins Photography
