and what a time
to be wrought
from bleak skies, from
forlorn magpies.
The sweet kiss,
gentle ease—
Summer gone,
no promise
of
Spring
buried, forgotten,
begging,
this quiet day
threatens
yet—
life births
beneath tumbled white.
a fateless,
frenzied
foray
leading
to something,
something—
something
with
a little mercy,
a little light,
a little warmth,
to turn frost to seed.
Sade is woken by the sounds and motions of a struggle next to her on the mattress. With what shadowy vestiges remain of her sight, she catches a flurry of movement as someone disappears into the bathroom.
Just to move away from
this space this place
This gap in the forest walls
Tired of being gaslit into oblivion?
Exhausted by the “I’m sorry you feel that way” Olympics?
Peter Ganglidge knows he is starting to lose control. Every day the pain gets worse, his energy is waning, and things are becoming harder to keep concealed.
Trails of dried tears ridge her cheeks, though she doesn’t recall why she was crying.
and what a time
to be wrought
from bleak skies, from
forlorn magpies.
You work the day shift. You work the night shift. You don’t sleep. You sleep too much. You eat. You don’t. It doesn’t matter. You keep scratching for life, hoping like hell the light returns.
A defiant bloom from the cracks—this one’s for the wild things that won’t stay buried.
A call.
Miles away, another answers. The air bends, the earth hums. Invisible threads weaving herd to herd across a distance no eye can cover.
Grey doesn’t scare me like it used to.