Drawn

Somebody painted a moon in the big, black sky.

A magical moon, as perfect as it could be.

Then, he took his thin, silver brush and his silver paint

And painted the ghost of a thin and silver tree.

Out of his mind came the forest. And I begin,

as there, to that silent forest, he drew me in.

Somebody left me, there in the big, dark woods

a hackling shape, a shadowy, sinewy line.

Then he took his wooden frame and his silver nail

and hung me there in a world that could never be mine.

Out of my mind came a longing, for scent and bite;

to run with the pack and escape from the painted night.