Maker of Kings

The wings run ragged
through her wild night,
the nights howl louder
in a stars frozen light.
Her branches grow naked
as bare fallen horns,
her roses have fallen
and left only thorns.
Oh the stars are much brighter
on nights stark and black,
her fires burn brighter
where brittle hearts crack.
When mother of starlight
moves without rest,
flight through the shadow
to her nocturnal nest.
Memory of evening,
midnights bright gem,
that once carried leaves
on summers green stem.
Up through the branches,
her lights broken web,
waves of the moon
a quiet eves ebb.
Up through the starlight,
rise through the cold,
move through the silence,
an evening grown old.
Priestess in search of
a vestals lost bed,
through ice, wind and blackness
where a mother once fled.
Oracle of the mer cave
on black ragged wings,
breathing life into death,
maker of kings.