The Violet Hour

August 11, 2011

A prelude to night’s wages
There is no sound in the forest,
Save for the nearly silent whisper
Of the southeast wind kissing the
Canopy leaves lightly
The moon waxes a thin veil
Over the hallowed grounds
It is only a few days before
The tenth and darkest month
Finally the main event:
The violet hour

Every two years and seven days
There is a particular clearing in a
Particular country in a particular
Region of this discontent world
Where time slows, ever slightly,
So that they may come out to play

Licking their chops, they prowl
The knife’s edge of the woods
And eye their prey: a sacrifice
Gladly given, lying still on the
Bed of moss and mist
She awaits her doom calmly,
Knowing that it won’t be quick
But that her gift will not be
Taken lightly by these
Perennial spirits

A final snap of their jaws
And her life has been taken
The people of her village sleep
Knowing that they are safe again
Perhaps her soul remains in that
Clearing, breathing into the autumn
The secrets she never
Could have shared in life



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