Your knuckles turn white as ghosts as your fingers contract like spider’s legs
curled around the prey of bed sheets and vicious truths
it’s a witching hour ritual with offerings and anointed box cutters
and you’d sacrifice every lamb just to get some fucking sleep
but when you lie down it’s not a bed or an altar
but just a decked out butcher’s block
Written for OctPoWriMo 2020. 31 poems, 31 days.
Well, there is magic and then there is MAGICK. This was as laborious as a hard-woven spell, mainly because it went through several versions before settling into this one, and even then the final line took a long, and I mean LONG time to emerge.
I think I need a break and soon.