A Mused Weapon

Words carved of ebony,
washed in moonlight,
stained with tears--
the blood of souls
sheathe bound by
music's chords.

Retrace with me
the paths the moon
has travelled
in her time;
moon up, moon down,
begin again.

The nymphs are dancing
in our yards and dreams
singing sultry lullabies,
seducing from us troubling
worries of our days.

Beware a writer's blade
and worse their seeing eyes,
for in darkness theirs
are powers glorified
in clarity imbibed
from muses felt not seen.