Her name was Jezebel, the beautiful siren of Moon;
She danced across the stars and sky, celestial creature of silver.
“Have you seen her?” asked the little boy of eight, “Jezebel?”
Her companions await her descent, the horse, the wolf.
We await her return, the thundering roar like drums.
I have seen one such as her, once upon a time.

“She slips between us like water,” I said. “There is no time.”
The caress of life enraptures all, observes Invisible Moon.
We cry tears of salt as the little boy of eight drums.
Black and white light are too static; give us silver.
We need the music; we devour, we hunt, we are wolf.
I search for the exalted form, heavenly and earthly, of Jezebel.

Look for the midnight crimson eyes of Jezebel.
By nightfall she hides before all; do not waste your time.
“There are no evil children,” says Mother Wolf.
Then the sun rises and she flees! Goodbye, moon!
We search the pale horizon for glimpses of silver.
The little boy of eight cries out, “Oh, the drums!”

I laugh because he mourns the departure of his drums.
“Adults cannot laugh properly,” she once said. That is, Jezebel.
We offer gems of rainbow; gold shines amongst silver.
They wait with the persistence of time.
The cold dawn is remorseless as the whiteness clouds the moon.
The little boy of eight starts to howl like a wolf.

“Stop!” I shout. “Are you man or wolf?”
Then there is a sound of danger, the clanging of kettle drums.
Firelight of red and gold burst; beware the sprinkle dust of Moon.
There exists a magnificent being, lovely and grotesque: Jezebel.
The little boy of eight jumps and shouts, “It is time!”
Crimson eyes gaze over us; her hair falls like streams of silver.

Her name is Jezebel—Jezebel of Quick Silver.
“Quicksilver?” she repeats, her smile reminiscent of the wolf.
You have showed steady patience that surpasses time;
Feel the glory, the ecstasy—where are the drums!
The little boy of eight touches her face: “Oh, Jezebel!”
Crimson and silver flash; the dawn is dead as the moon.

Once upon a time, there lived a young girl.
She was enchanted from birth and fell in love with the mirror in the room.
Every day she would wake and greet the mirror with a smile,
“Hello, my love, show me the other world.”
Then morning and afternoon light would die,
And she would cry and weep before the mirror:
“It is all shadows; where is my candle? Where is my glow?”
She would go to bed and sleep bad dreams.

The cycle repeated,
For eighty-eight storms and frosts.
The girl then became a woman, and the woman,
Spoke to the mirror each morning with a smile:
“My love, where is the other world?”
Dawn and dusk would wither away,
And tears would fall from her eyes as she pondered,
“It is all gloom and darkness; where is the true light?”

The cycle repeated,
For eight star falls and comet runs.
The woman grew old and wizened and every day she woke,
And spoke to the mirror: “My love, you are the world.”
Daylight and nightlight would fade away,
And the tears were dry and painful as she asked,
“It is all black and white. There is no flame.”

At the end of time, there was an old woman,
Sitting by the windowless edge alone.
The mirror twisted and reversed and revealed itself:
“There are no two worlds, my love; the light is the darkness—
You are the girl and the woman and everyone reflects.”

I dream of darkness and life without hope:
Blue and red light pours through the inky sky.
Cold, figureless, death whispers hollowly.
I count sixty in the moon of blackness.

Airless? I breathe putrid fumes caught aflame.
Lifeless? Empty shells scatter around me.
Soundless? Music like thunder cries for end.
Emotionless. The mind breaks in the heat.

No salvation from this fiery hell;
Fingernails scratch wooden floors lined in black.
Demons claw inside me, itching to fly.

Embers dance in my sight, I see my life—
Blue-red light at horizon is too far—
Spark, reaper, blaze, I see my spirit fall.