I fall asleep to the briar songs of witches,
Those
who circle me with miniature bells
Attached
to thorn fingers, the ones
That
unflesh the golden fruit that falls
On
some black, unholy ground,
Left
to simmer and swarm
Like
other brooding souls.
Among
the bearded hags of trees,
I
turn these stones into conjurer’s bones
Let
them to rattle in my pockets.
I
know this darkness will cause
My
cells to open like ghost flowers,
As
my body hums alone on its bed
And
my skeleton rises from its sleep
To
walk down a lonely road.
No comments:
Post a Comment