He was borne in light so dim and crevice so deep

At the dawning of life and in tranquil sleep

Not as a thunderclap, no, much milder and meek

Barely a whisper, like a third wing’s beat

Upon an iridescent feather and a grim woeful shriek

Yet the shriek was remote, unseen, unheard

And the silent yawp singes in its infernal wave of heat

The bleak heat of night the Dusking Dove did bring

Contrary sultry, copacetic and light

And verily he stays with his vision a blight

Ye beautiful sword, ye Icewolf’s Bite

Stead his spectation in the eternal fight

Ye beautiful sword, ye Icewolf’s Bite

At eve’s discourse you hear the mournful coo

That coo the last and true as the warmth leaves-runs through you

The light of your aura one cannot say

Your true corona hidden by him until that day

Here it will burst and flood, the shine of your light

Ye beautiful sword, ye Icewolf’s Bite

Song sung licking from his tongue of vermouth

Sanguine pure, spoken full of love

Spoken true, from the tongue of the dusking dove.

~Phoenix Moone