A/N: True to goth stereotype, I wrote this by the light of the full moon, in a cemetary, on Halloween night.

And so spins the moon

Like strings of courage and fury

Like the men who wear my colors

Silver owl feathers in their hair

They move through rows of stone

Aiming their needles at those I mistrust

They are soldiers, they do not sing

My clouds, effervescent carbon dioxide

An atmosphere all my own

This hilltop

A weak, wavering howl

Shrill

With dried blood falling in flakes from my neck

Snow the color of rust

My colors

And so spins the moon

A bauble above my breast

And so spins the moon

A candle above my grave

And so spins the moon