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Aug 2015
I ate from 
a rotting bowl
the writhing fruits
picked blindly 
by the crone,
who set her children 
free
into the
forest. 
They whisper
in the 
tangled brush,
snatching at 
the ankles 
of those who 
wander
from the path. 

Under grey 
skies
weeping their
first snow,
the crackling
branches
twist in their 
death throes,
as wretched beasts
burrow through
their brittle bodies
to hide 
from the cold. 
And from the
children,
who play
at being 
wolves. 

The crone
speaks
before the
hearth,
of little
but the 
cold,
stirring her
*** over
heartless
flame. 
She says
their names, 
never quite 
smiling,
but weeps
softly when 
she cannot 
remember
her own. 
I do not
tell her mine,
for fear 
she will 
one day
whisper it 
upon the 
fire. 

On my way,
she called
once from the
darkened doorway,
a plea to a girl
she once knew,
answered
by a mad
laughter, 
from the
cold and dark,
where no 
footsteps
fall.
Michael Solc
Written by
Michael Solc
553
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