Gary Knapton
Amber’s Embers
Embers of realisation flushed her crimson
Collecting thoughts blooming from her mouth
Flowering in shock
Fruits to silenced awe
Brushing amber strands from her face
Ripening glances took her
Lightning struck
Away
Outside the auditorium
Washed in cold autumn
A moth birthed in the moon
Emitting a frosting of disappointment
Her betrothment
Wrapped in spit and silken threads
Was dead