In the darkness, before I ventured to dream, above my screen window, was her - a looming blood moon, of the world's woes she bled, as shooting stars arced in such a vastness that time cannot end. In those starry hours, I longed to sleep, yet, the mischievous schemes of ghosts interrupted my dreams, and, as I bade them to leave - the blood moon of mysteries rose to her sorrow, she became a wound in the sacredness of heaven's peace, beyond the highest thrones of the saints - is the steadfast One, Who weeps in amber shafts of light.