last night the wolves came.
*there are plum bruises across the sky
and mountains burnt white with faded sun and there’s a path seared sharp into the pines that brightens as the sky dims.*
*there’s a nameless man beneath the gallows
squatting like a carrion-bird at a **** a
smile splits his face like a wound
there’s blood like spilled wine, great grinning
pools of it, and the snows are thirsty to drink*
*and there’s a woman with a story like a knife
and nothing to lose, and she sharpens her words and follows the fraying path into the woods.*
the wolves come.
they always do.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 2:03 PM UTC
last night the wolves came.
*there are plum bruises across the sky
and mountains burnt white with faded sun and there’s a path seared sharp into the pines that brightens as the sky dims.*
*there’s a nameless man beneath the gallows
squatting like a carrion-bird at a **** a
smile splits his face like a wound
there’s blood like spilled wine, great grinning
pools of it, and the snows are thirsty to drink*
*and there’s a woman with a story like a knife
and nothing to lose, and she sharpens her words and follows the fraying path into the woods.*
the wolves come.
they always do.
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