In my early, disruptive thirties,
I wondered through
An aimless, broken land,
With a slew of past sins as my guide.
Along my travels,
I found a temple made of marble stone
Standing in the middle of nowhere.
St. John’s Night
On the night of St. John, atop the flattest peak of the tallest mountain, three Witches danced in decomposed unison around a bonfire made of the flesh and bones of followers to a god unknown.
The first was light of skin with hair of fire. Over her sisters she danced in balance and harmony, writhing her arms as the winds overtook both arm and finger within their hook. Poor fool.