By Clair Prins
The ghostly eyes
Of the moon peek through
Branches of trees.
Murmurs of my forgotten
Histories swirl and
Dance, gently
Caressing my hair and
Coaxing me along.
I race,
I run
For the thrill of it.
I wave at stars
And scream
At the moon to
Come get me!
Bring me away with you!
Giving no-name boys
No second glances,
Shining, shimmering, furiously myself,
I own the night.
