The Moon-Crowned Forecourt

The Moon-Crowned Forecourt

The garden is all roses—
roses, and roses again.
Withered fountain,
answer me: who is
your lord?

White roses,
the cherished lapis blooms—
beneath a heaven
crimson with starfire, all
seem roses wrought of blood.

The moon is red.
For this hour alone,
the Castle of Night Visions
takes form—souls parted from flesh
gather for the revel.