A Bad Poem for a Cold Day in Hell

01 sigil magick

somewhere beyond the morning
her twisting shadow grows
and in the soft transition
the wind it howls and moans

like a tree in grim repose
its branches all a-twist
a spell is song so softly
from her dead and lifeless lips

bones bleached by the wayside
somewhere past the willow grove
with browning grass and wild weeds
there to serve as her tombstone

her voice is but a whimsy
in tune with broken glass
and the disquiet meditation
is akin to a repast

so when the moon rises overhead
and the winter wolves do prowl
then in soft surrender we’ll
break the warding under ground

and before the spring comes calling
we’ll carve runes forevermore
in the soft pink flesh of never
and open up the door

©Bob Freeman, 2014


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