…
We call it ashes and smear
it on our foreheads, an elegy
in ebony for some sloe
shadowed song.
Starless, we stretch
our velvet hands to stand
at the center of midnight,
fight dusk with the last
of our misty might, ninja
our longing into stony moon.
We call it black,
clack it out in inky
streams, ink our skin
with onyx dreams and
silence cold as slate.
Pitch me a raven, a
sabled pepper my
-stery, my story
charcoaled into
history in licorice
and quill.
We call it jet
and long to fly,
try some brighter
cobalt sky more absent
of obsidian.
We taste words like
atramentous and piceous
on our own stygian tongues,
spit them out for more simple
sparks.
We call it black, wish
it away, spin it to the vortex;
then beg
………….it
……..back.
…
With gratitude to Shawna for the link to this cool list.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
First, the shape is very interesting. “stygian tongues” – nice. We are like a moth to the flame, I guess. I love your word play here with mystery – my story;
Also ninja our longing into stony moon -nice. And also that third stanza is stellar. You are so very talented!
Thank you, ma’am. Always.
I like it all very much. But these are especially magical to me:
“charcoaled into history in licorice and quill”
“try some brighter cobalt sky more absent of obsidian”
I keep reading it over and over again. I really can’t give you a better compliment than that.
True dat. 😉 Thanks again for the dark inspiration.