Running my thumb along the edge, the points sharp by touch;
my thoughts turn inward, wisps of memory for the soul to dredge;
the splintering of reality at dusk.
Stark mountains there, torn metal thrusting into the sky;
forever tracing the shadows edge;
awry, an epoch dwelling on the terminator between light and dark.
Jagged peaks still sharp enough to cut;
blood trickling down to streams and rivers,
pooling in valleys in times of flood.
Reflections there, from the past,
liquid in metal refracted in light,
glare from a thousand suns beating down;
smear of a billion stars in the ink of night;
haunting beauty of a smile, now lost forever in time;
bone white shard of a sickle moon shredding clouds in flight;
the softness in her eyes, gazing back into mine.
(Bryan Garaventa, 2016)