Writings of the Month
Prismatic Moon By W. Chastain I'd heard of a place just beyond the horizon, Where tornadoes and hilltops are one and the same. A hole in the skyline, just our of God's eyesight Where not even Death can remember your name. Where the mythic and fabled both giggle and cheer As they dance off the beat of an old favored tune, And escape with each other to a fantastic Valley And bask in the glow of the Prismatic Moon. But the Sirens who sang of this place made me wary When they said that the Valley defends itself well; A curtain of fire surrounds this Nirvana, And only the bravest can this tempest quell. Now Bravery's a sword I can't claim to carry, Though I've earnestly yearned for it's blade to betroth. The sword that I wield is of much lesser quality: It's made of my wit and my cowardice both. I've fought many battles with the weapon I carry, Tasting both sweet victory and bitter defeat. And though I've discovered many lands in
