The ichor light oozing from westering cloud is not sad;
the spidery scarlet poinsettia orbs
have not transmigrated from Titan;
flying foxes' hook-winged silhouettes
homing to carmine-rimmed dawn
are neither aliens nor demons,
but strange nocturnal Antipodeans;
the blood disorder invading my veins
is a form of chess that consumes many pawns -
an endgame of sorts, its duration unknown,
unlikely to close in a draw...