The moon, appearing like a white bud, ascends the arc of starlit sky above. She dawns a pure white mask of perfection, cantillating light to the silence below. Patches of dark and light on her surface illuminate craters that seem to dance and swirl in accordance to my meandering steps. I breathe the coat of lambs, and thrash my hands into feeling cold. My feet slide along the black mirror of pavement, and I gaze into the sparse forests: the naked sages stand solidly at their posts, guards for the pulsing moon. She begins to bloom, and unveils deep crimson wounds, while a sliver of white tears clings to her cheek. A deer is haloed by yellow porchlights, his opal eyes comprehending all and gracing me with a glimpse into truth. He turns, as do I; and I trundle on, now crunching my shoes into freshly shoveled snow. The blood seeps to my lip and caresses my tongue, stinging it with the taste of pain. I breathe, and watch clumps of fog wisp away into the mute roar of planes overhead, erroneously blinking green—green—green. The precious flower conceals itself once again, and blood pounds its eternal drum against my flesh.