Dangling, hung by a thread
unraveling
slightly faster than it is
repaired,
but only slightly.
Like letters that are just
barely
out of focus,
so close to being illegible,
so close to becoming just
lines on a page in a
packed-away notebook
that was once an alter
for self-possessed ramblings.
A hand, a thought, a smile,
just out of reach,
clinging to a phantom of a
former reality,
grasping at the dust
kicked up by
feet dancing deftly away
as they have always done.

beast soul or feast of toil
nave or gnome poet or saint
cave or sunlit mount or free cloud baring
the least rain the main
thing or an ant
an insignificant
bit of DNA that calms the sexually aggressive
the sinners of us saints
the devil's soul awaits those
among us pertinent
to survival so I sold
my wings to a sinner
fluttered down
and was landed upon
as a walking innocent
like I think of us all
called upon the earth cried out
forsaken is a hard boil
yes I am a boil
a sore upon the
hellsfire
a bane to those believed
tired never getting older
still not believing

Unicorn sprinkles,
Daffodils jam,
A little star's twinkle
And some dragon ham.

Some emerald clovers,
A pint of fairy dust,
A handful of stover
And some canned gust.

Teardrops of a Selkie,
Well shaken, not stirred,
The horseshoe of a kelpie,
Late Iron Age sherds.

Some fizzy witchcraft,
One bottle or two,
And maybe a draught
Of love potion too.