Gene Derwood

After reading St. John the Divine

Moon's glow by seven fold multiplied, turned red,
Burned fierce by the coronal limbs at last
Out-leaping insulating space, a-blast
The searing heat sheeting round earth ahead
Of the scorched geoid´s course; and I a-bed
Watching that increased flame and holding fast
To pulse and pillow. Worse! No shadow cast
By chair or cat. All people waking dead...

Earth lurches spacial waste; my room is hot;
That moon waxes her monstrous, brimstone disk
Thick fear stretches before the febrile light;
Green fires pierce at my clenching eye´s blind spot...
My buried soul, rising to face the risk,
With one pure deed restores the natural night.