Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Snap Apple Night

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