Somewhere In The Starlight

Somewhere in the starlight, her lone pillow brightens,
And the rising crescent moon ascends within the glass.
Its long and pale light across the chamber whitens
The doors and frames and bedstand across which it must pass.
She lies sleeping, her cheek cradled by her piled hands,
Her dark lashes like streaks of bruises on her pale skin.
She is far from the moonlit room, lost in fairylands,
And her eyes flicker and move without showing what, within,
Stirs her so that her eyeballs jump and dart as if in fright,
Without showing what she is dreaming, somewhere in the starlight.

Somewhere in the starlight, a red-haired woman lies awake,
And stares back at the stars that stare at her with pale eyes.
I could wish peace upon her, if only for my own sake,
But she is a wild spirit (as can be seen in her love of open skies).
She would reject the wish for peace with a laugh of vainglory,
And turn back to the stars as if nothing could make her stir.
But I know what she is, where she has been, her story,
And I know that she has enough waking dreams to trouble her
That she would be glad of peace, if it came some night.
For now she wrestles with her nightmares somewhere in the starlight.

Somewhere in the starlight, the pale-faced peaceful woman lies,
Dark hair flowing down her sides as it did when for my touch
She would beg, with all her heart and the stars within her eyes.
I should not remember her so clearly; it should not matter much.
But she has claimed a corner of my heart, enough that I can see
Her lying there and sleeping beneath the light of crescent moon,
Enough that I can see her and recall her with perfect clarity,
Enough that the separation from the scene plauges me like a tune
Caught somewhere within the confines of my tune-raddled brain might.
I know that she sleeps peacefully, somewhere in the starlight.

Somewhere in the starlight, a red-haired woman might walk,
Or stare into the shifting shades of an iridescent, glowing fire,
Or her demons and her monstrosities within her silent mind stalk,
Or be writhing with a lover upon a bed of red desire,
Or be lying and trying, unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep
After being startled awake from the depths of some discomfiting dream
That had awakened her when she began to moan and weep,
Or when she sat up with ears ringing with the sound of her own scream.
Whether she is engaged in bedding, sleeping, staring, or a fight,
She is out there doing something, somewhere in the starlight.

Somewhere in the starlight, those two women under stars
Lie sleeping or perhaps sleeping, their hair of black and red
Trailing across my vision like old and bloody scars,
Making me remember my duty to the living- my duty to the dead.
I say that I love one- but even children know that for a lie.
I do not know which one I miss, which one I most long for.
When I see the sleeping woman, I also see her under sky;
When I love the red-haired, love I the black-haired more.
All I can do is pray that to both of them my sleepy prayers take flight,
Sleeping or perhaps sleeping, somewhere in the starlight.