Absinthe December

In the whispering caves,
hidden under the northern Ireland hills,
way before you were born mdear,
and I was oh so much younger then,
the ravens taught me
their magic languages,
ancient spells
had been passed
down from
the oldest of the trees
still living on the planet.

I don’t need
to fit in any of
your boxes,
my brother taught me that,
the idea that
I could be loved,
freak that I am,
creep in the night
that could see through
the crawlspaces
in your brain,
taste energy
like licking up
absinthe from a spoon
on a rainy evening

in December.

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