Sta.sh
Somber rays of sun drift o’er the cornice,
Melting in its exit, dreamless and breathless.
Flora, but not fauna, stretch arms along the floor,
Barricading gates and blockading fallow doors.
It’s cold, laying hands on these stone castle walls.
Footsteps resonate, caught in these yawning halls.
But, at night,
Voices not my own echo down through the rooms.
Whispers ‘round the bell do battle with the moon,
Asking it to wait.
Please wait.
Wraithlike breezes from the North rattle papers, feathers shake.
There’s scratching, clawing on the headboards. None sleeping, none awake.
Whittled wands cast little spells, spawning lazy earthquakes
And grapes on the vine listen to three witches wait for long lost mates.
Somber rays of sun plunge into windows, retreating to the precipice for fear of waking
an anxious, thrashing,
nauseous, calling,
jestless, threesome
of restless widows.
They beg the sun,
Asking it to wait.
Please wait for their skin, their crows feet, their sag.
Nuzzling their pentagram pillows.
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