Witchblood


A little poem I found scrawled in the convolutions of my brain.

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Leaves by frahnkee

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Witchblood

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Does she love the half light,

the oblique mirror,

the sheen?

Are her fingers,

thrown against the white sky,

rune-like?

Is she always listening for

bells and

sighs,

rustling footsteps

on the leaves?

Does autumn move her,

fire and gloom,

a winter white lover

holding secrets

under the black soil?

*

Within the hollow tree

she stands.

Knowledge trickling

sap-like

down the vision

is not apart

from nature

but is in all things

that carpet

the earth.

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