Milky crescent, parts dense nimbus sentries
illuminates silent, barren wasteland.
Asphyxiated air allows not a breeze
boulders salute the departed, proud they stand.
Alone in the dark, he prowls among the trees-
sees soft life, pure, to it, reaches out a hand.
Stops short, won’t touch, claws have no right to feel grace;
this lonesome soul, is forever, out of place.
He wears their fearful scorn, in taut blackened form,
nary a loyal friend in the world, has he.
The hurt hides, behind masked attempt at the norm
but saddened heart knows, he’ll be what he will be.
Light-flowered hope, he does not want to deform.
Crippling despair, brings him down on one knee.
Fated sins, the darkness taunts, he’ll n’er atone-
doomed end, white-faced tragedy, must face alone.
Silver trophy winner
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