The Crescent

Like a crab with a shell,

I wander the world with my cloak.

With joyful magic we secretly dwell,

in towns and cities, among friendly folk.

A cloak not even Dracula,

privileged enough to possess.

Awakened from his majestic tomb,

heavy, in distress.

With bloodthirsty claws, his gloom and doom,

hunts us down wherever we roam.

Between intriguing masks and scents of vanilla,

his crimson breath touched my neck.

On the third night of Carnevale di Venezia,

his pearls barely missed a peck.

What the Count could not achieve,

my cloak, in amber-black, to retrieve.

A crescent, unblemished, emerged

like a swift dagger out of the sleeve,

behind a feathery cloud he loomed.

His veil of light caught my shade,

seized my head, slithered down the spine.

Peeling smoothly off my frame,

My cloak severed, lead to my bane.

Left frozen, without a chine,

I searched the skies for someone to blame.

As we met, eye to eye,

with all my colors, at last exposed.

He cracked a brazen grey smile,

his gaze drifted, away he dozed.

Releasing me from my shame.

So here we are,

the cloak and I,

on a Venetian night.

In cover from all,

yet plain in sight,

noticed by none.

Except for one.

One with wisdom not strewn.

The one who calls himself,

the crescent of the silver moon.