A Hanging Moon

this time these
years on, you frown,
framed again by
lines and angles slicing 

your white cold light
bathes my skin in this
firelit place of stone
and woodlined nurturing

the house is quiet tonight -
our tapestries fade
submissively and 
bleed their reds away

so much has changed 
so much has not - tonight
I am a woman charged 
and fey, hectic-eyed in

disarray, distraught - this 
time and place is dearly
bought, I know it, I stare 
at your cold face crying

what have I gained, where
am I brought across such
late miles of wasteland 
jaggedness - here your

vivid scaffold is rope
swinging and you laugh
the non-committal white 
of your dry lips refuses 

to divulge the truth of it:
that revelation is
width of knowledge and
the cost - that one's planes

are cut and brighten 
with pain, are faceted by 
suffering and carrying 
to let the light within

refract and gleam unbroken
we bring our souls
to the scaffold
to be judged by our own

shining - my trial is yet
unwon, the jury are in
recess until the right
time, my diamond is

half-done, half-
rough, half-cut, I will be
back when it is
completed - till then 

I am patient of my 
outcome, the jury's look
of disdain, the moon's frown
is his own, my pain goes on
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