Suffer the Night
The cauldron comes to boil laden with wounded flesh and broken bones. Witches mind the iron kettle, while grim ogres without repentance circle the fire
September 25, 2016
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The cauldron comes to boil laden with wounded flesh and broken bones. Witches mind the iron kettle, while grim ogres without repentance circle the fire
Death came by, rang the doorbell, shot me a text. No one home I wanted to say but if I said it, well, someone’s home.
In first light, moist air before day’s heat, the fresh smell of innocence. Birds call in the distance, geese stir and feed; otter slowly curves
Simple stories rise from the grist of water washed gravel, desire revealed shining and desperate. We’ve loved, then not, then loved again. Nothing complex but