Night of the Crescent

I woke up from a fitful, restless sleep

One evening in July,

And from my room I spied a crescent moon

Against a stagnant sky.

As cold sweat formed upon my pallid brow

I felt the frigid floor,

Then tossed my body from my tousled bed

And ventured out the door.

I gazed into the lifeless sky of black

And at that shining moon,

Where flashed the year of memories past

Since I had sealed my doom.

My soul grew sicker every breath, as death

Hung heavy in the air.

The crescent moon cut a hole in my heart,

And filled it with despair.

I wandered past the gloomy carriage house,

And looked upon the ground,

Where, lying in the dying, yellowed grass,

A sickle-knife I found.

And grasping tight the tarnished sickle-knife,

I thought about my love,

But was beckoned to the yonder wood by

The sickle up above.

I crept into the shrouded, gnarled wood

And wove throughout the trees,

Until I came upon that rocky hill

That was my heart's disease.

A year ago that dark and dreary eve

I'd climbed that self-same mount.

I'd climbed up with my gentle, precious love,

But climbed back down without.

So once again I started to ascend

Unto its stony peak,

Finding that my arms and legs were strong,

But that my heart was weak.

Once atop that horrid, craggy peak

I reached the fateful rock.

A flat stone, like an altar, with a streak

Of crimson 'cross the top.

Standing on the blood-stained rock,

I held the sickle to my breast,

And with a gasp I plunged its curvèd blade

Into my seething chest.

For pangs of guilt and bitter, vile remorse

Had racked my ev'ry breath.

I'd suffered long, but not enough, and so

Condemned myself to death.

For I'd lost my love upon that dismal rock

That evening in July,

When I slit her throat with the sickle-knife,

And left her there to die.