food for crows

gasping, gaping. Metastasis. It glows in the corner as a fire fly’s mouth. Deep molasses of a moonless Southern night. It has a need of its own. There is a name on the door but no one knows who it belongs to anymore. That seed was scattered and crop failed. Erasure, in gilded gloaming. The craft of wetwork still decorates some of old pine floor. l’satan lo. Obstruction, judgement. The weather vane is rusted in a westerly position. Adverse to meaning, this pain is still subjective. There was never a time in this place where the low dogs didn’t whine. There was never a place in this time that felt so wrong.

Perhaps your wrongness was mine. They used to burn the witches in the square. Malleus Maleficarum. It happened just before the end. These things often do at All Hallow’s, reaping, Samhain. Desperation, fear, hunger. I remember the eyes but not the face and a gaze that screamed. Wind roared in from the East. With it came such a tempest that meant to leave no life behind.

Never did I run so hard, so far, and so long. Never did I look back.

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