Bonesplinter Ravine poetry is a way of taking life by the throat

Thank you and yours is too! Fair warning Maul's first post might have just been a fluke.

the red disc fell and the world with it.
save the rampant chatter of wind
which knows no sleep, like fingers searching
climbs up the spines of stones and mortals alike.


he pauses as a whisper of noise comes.
not wind or leaves, but patter of feet;
and looks up,  met by the molten vision
of soft gold spun as artful as spider's silk.


a wolfish figure, but spartan; sharp
refined as kindness' unnerving blade.
his ears sweep back while a ribbon
of a smile hangs carefully off his poised lips.