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.