The Quiet Afterlight

When the third moon thins over the magnolia edge,
The bayou exhales a hunger older than breath.
A shimmer of scales glints near the reeds,
sweet on the eyes, sour in the bone,
a lure born of trickster spirits.

A blue shadow sways by halls of rebellion,
half-memory, half-beast,
singing broken hymns the soil once tried to bury.

Beyond the western veil, a golden gaze burns,
still as judgment,
patient as a promise sealed before kingdoms rose.

The trees bend toward the seeker.
The ground begins to hum.
Whispers curl like smoke from unmarked earth,
measuring the weight of his name.

Above, the Crimson Monarch crosses the night,
and even the spirits bow,
for his shadow carries the memory
of seasons bent to his will.

And when the brothers’ feud grows still,
The veil will split,
The chosen path will rise from the murk,
and the valley’s roar..ancient, waiting
will claim the one bold enough
to answer it.