In the falling of Dusk, she glides like silk on a whisper.
Her great wings curve to catch the pockets of the Night.
Surveyor of the Dark, she sees three sixty degrees into the absence.
Such a big, beautiful satellite face she has.
All the echo shades that glisten across the airwaves are gathered here.
The muttering madness under the cover of blackness,
And every desperate prayer that tries to counter
The claws of Demise is now an un-secret.
She perches, knowing.
🎴🃏 by Megan Wyreweden, Anima Mundi Tarot, 2017