the balter of luna.

the moon will sing to welcome her war.

all arched brows

and pointed stares.

eyes alight with the flame of

inconsequential grace,

grounded power,

and unprecendented rage.

no split-second hesitation, only whispered orders

brimming with magic begging to

spill cooly from poised fingertips,

curling their poisoned tendrils

round the curves of her armour,

against the grain of her furor,

supplanting some insurmountable,

unequivocal wealth of power.

as if arm hairs are bristled to

teeth set squarely

and a jaw clenched,

the guttural scream of a warrior queen,

waging a celestial war,

upon the tidal pull of heavenly agitations

and wishful projections will resound.

an echoing call of the wild,

earth-shaking but so-

insufferably just.

the throes will emerge,

defiant of gravitational limitations,

unbounded by their human suppositions,

unbothered by their human acquisitions,

unbridled by human manifestations.

and, as the world falls aparts,

a misapprehension shattered by

self-actualized demand,

the moon will sing to welcome her war.