The Mystic Moans

Chains, strains, and

drizzling drains

followed me home

after the earthquake

that hit hard on the 17^th 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.