A pale moon, I see.
Gray light and charcoal days forward.
For it to be, it must be so, so I wait and pace an interminable corridor. The oily paintings, portraits in static devotion, watch. A select few concede to the impending grief. I see no tears on the icy marble. My gentle and flat-faced companions know that will come later. As do I.
Shadows taste bitter when the moon is sick.
The night, too.