Shrouded in her cloudy veil the moon beckons me — tantalising like a coy mistress — she makes me hungry and angry with broken promises of apocalyptic visions.
The damp grass quivers under my weight, begging me not to tread any further lest I should ravage the bliss of its fleeting union with the moonlight and the evening dew: Their eternity frozen in that moment.
Unrelenting, I pursue the receding moon, the wind beating fiercely against my pale face and frail frame; angry that I alone should have willed when all is quiet whence I come.
The narrow pass meanders into the grim woods, like a rickety stairs to an abandoned attic hurting my feet with stones sharp and rocks rough — A path seldom used?
In the silence of the growing night I can hear my heart pounding and the heavy breadth in rhythmic rasps, warning me it’s time I stopped my hunt for the Will-o’-the-Wisp.
As I pause mighty baffled, wondering if it is the end of the road there surges a voice from the wilderness, “Come on! Don’t stop — at least not yet, the moon is only waiting to be all yours.”