The Mystic Moans

Chains, strains, and
drizzling drains
followed me home
after the earthquake
that hit hard on the 17th floor
like a faucet gushing heat,
making tea
on a Sunday morning,
while dad was sobbing
into his shirt sleeves.

My body still
aches and shakes
in the wreckage,
ever left behind
with the ghosts still
moaning low,
keeping time
with the moon
and making love to
the mystic mayhem
that shook the rafters,
as I performed my magic
under the stalking eye
of the raven.

You were floating
away from me,
regardless of
my resonating howls,
even my vibrating prayers
betrayed me and
refused to sink into your skull,
melt pains away,
take us back to the days
when I crushed,
with mortar and pestle,
clover, flower petals, and grain,
that I had picked
in the forests of Michigan,
and the swing set erotica sleep
lulling me into deep dream states,
visions that made me scream out
when the sun set
and the dark took over,
settling in my eardrums,
humming venom
and prophecy.

No comments:

Post a Comment