The Oracle was in a romantic mood this morning.
Arm me with blue
not weapons of iron-red,
and let me walk in the pale shadow of the moon
that lingers in twilight and beneath the trees,
not the bitter glare of midday sun.
May the silver light wax full and ripe,
softening the sharp fringes of black rocks
with water-tongues, lapping cool
and rippling with the deep wisdom
known to fish, stars and all silent things.
There is no pain in this overwhelming,
this sinking into the embrace of the dark,
like the sky raining petals perhaps,
with wave-rolling music that plays on the skin,
gentle as starlight.
I could watch it, the sky, the night,
the solemn beauty of dawning day,
dancing for a thousand thousand years
until we reach that shore where time stops
with the tiny whisper of a dying wave.