The Moon of Ivory Teeth
A jagged crescent hangs above the pines,
Not smooth or silver, but a row of bone;
With edges sharp as cold and ancient lines,
It carves a path through shadows all alone.
It does not reflect light upon the wave,
But gnaws away the fabric of the dark;
To leave a world that's hollow as a grave,
Without a single, glowing lunar spark.
The tides are pulled by biting, hungry force,
As if the ocean were a piece of meat;
The stars are scattered from their steady course,
To fall like crumbs around its pearly feet.
The sky is wounded by the biting white,
The predator that rules the deep of night.
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