My friend and solice on the plains,
The wind is peaceable and near,
Blows eastward with a subtle sharp refrain,
Commanding lidded eyes and quiet fear,
The reverent kind.

Bloodied moon in amber flame,
That chokes upon the earthen crust,
That billows out grim radiance,
In orange-yellow hues bemused,
It is a weeping eye, it's crescent
Fallen lost below the spires.

Delay a poem 'till it ripens into theme,
Wandering until the steps are gazed upon,
Searched for quips and rhyming scheme,
Slumped slothful atop some topics forgone.

Two suns,
Glare into the depths of the red sand,
Headlights screaming of an ever delayed onslaught,
Yet only void lies behind,
And the onslaught is already upon the scorched rouge in its radiant glow,
The rolling crimson clings tense around the asteroid,
Lining the mosaic rock with rippling tendons,
A boy sits glum in the rippling rygo-sand,
Tendrils of piping dress his helmet like tribal locks,
And spray painted cannisters extend from his back like sprawling limbs.