Struck

The moonlight on the desert
is a truly wondrous thing
it makes the sand as golden
as the coffer of a king,
though scorpions still sting.

Across the dunes that glistened
rode an agent of the dark
determined to deliver
a swift and silent arc
to a duly sanctioned mark.

No glimmer of compassion
helped to soften his harsh glare
he hurried without respite
to the small encampment where
his victim brushed her hair

completely unsuspecting
of the target on her back,
she prepped herself for slumber
while he squinted through a crack
impatient to attack.

Abruptly she stood naked
in a scintillating beam
of moonlight that portrayed her
as a goddess from a dream—
what madness made it seem

a sin to harm such symmetry,
what demon stayed his hand?
He struggled with new feelings
he was loath to understand
that shifted more than sand.


***Part I***