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Sister moon's quicksilver tears streak across the night sky.

Her heart is split, lain open raw in a wound seeping indigo blood.

Peace has been stolen from her with a charlatan's gaze and a medicine man's charm.

I heard that Apollo came to her last night and said, "Be wary dear sister, the wolves are in the thickets. They have caught your scent and wicked mouths curl with lust."

He was too late.

I gather my ghostly lover, wrap her tight in a woolen blanket to kiss away the burning salt.

As the sun touches the sky, I will lay blood from land to sea.

I like this one too, so true, so true. But hope is not all burnt out yet. I for one keep an eye on the wolves, a man has few other duties these days. Take care.
James.

Know this song by Joe Cocker? Your poem reminded me of it. Interesting. I thank you.

Sarah

sounds like a Nordic Myth, stoneange. Beauty with guts.

Very visual and soaked in mood and longing.
wow!