The first stitch.
We are all at fortunes beck.
on the end of a string.
As if the cosmos are waiting
for our commands.
Frozen evenings and the Empress.
Homely thin girl
with sins festered.
Speaking to the trees,
aware of every shadow.
She gives away what belongs to strangers.
Her power to haunt
drains life,
sufficient to wring her out.
He’s all eyes.
Staring at the coves and inlets
of her sullen mind.
She loves him for his obedient glance.
He rambles into her grooves
full of machinery.
Venus fills the request of Mars.
She must wait until fairer more powerful ones
may take their place.
Or until the wiser more practiced,
can break the spell.
Rest is lost.
The drink brings hauntings.
Sorrow has returned
separated into layers of different densities and thicknesses.
Sacred beast.
I do not fear you.
We desire to escape
from the this world,
seeking truth
for ourselves.
I don’t know
whether you is, what you is, what sort you is.
You don’t know nothing.
(monthly zine vol. 2. all poetry by me)
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