A deep, black current stirring

An ocean of blood

The moon falls upon it

Suspended on venial iniquity

Is the cuspent Crescent Blade

The dull reflection stares

Yearning to be divulged

Yet the sinister image repulses

And repels the weary Vagrant

Does he wish it to be his?

Is this the power he sought?

He is afraid of his own wrath

As he cowers beneath the dark blanket

The remnance of light

Sleeping, softly, but not rested

The illuminated disk spirals to his mind

And hovers

A virus of his thought

Neither living nor dead; light nor dark

Neither awake nor asleep

Nothing is real

With the only exception:

His farcical dreams

In the lazy water meadow he awakes

The sun bright upon his face

In the sky, a bird was heard to cry

Icy wind of night, this is not your domain

The semi-sigmoid crest is engraved in his mind

Dull ambient light flows from his brain

The Vagrant is again uneased

His quest for the night trails through the day

An active slumber

A passive sleep, he wanders through fiction

The hunt for reality is won

The dogs are housed, the guns are locked

And the fox is left bleeding by the gulch