Mar 2020
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.
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.
