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Mar 24
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.
Liz Rossi
Written by
Liz Rossi  F/London
(F/London)   
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