He haunts the night like a witch carries her child bones,
click-clack-clack,
spilling her spells along the path.
He has nothing to offer, the hungry spider stealing hope in his unyielding ghost web.
He envies the young like winter to fall and creeps the frost on last shakes of leaves.
He watches the nature of fog stroking the chills of others though it shirks his skin.
He is drawn to how it’s intangible, how it’s like living forever, how it is him.
He rests in your wits uneasily, resembling death creeping on innocence .
He is the vengeful dark for the forlorn girl left to tremble in the woods.
He is the shadowing hawk preying on the chickens just born.
He is the keeper of every lost faith and stuttered prayer pled in despair.
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Thanks so much for entering and good luck in the contest
--
Dee
--
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice.
-ee cummings, brillopads poet.
--
Dee
--
"To really ask is to open the door to the whirlwind. The answer may annihilate the question and the questioner." - Lestat
[link]
--
Dee
--
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice.
-ee cummings, brillopads poet.
--
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice.
-ee cummings, brillopads poet.
--
she'll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing (if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice.
-ee cummings, brillopads poet.
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