On the woo, where the city bends its wrought iron
spine to the moon, leaning into the hollows of the night.
The air is a heavy velvet, thick with the scent of unsaid things,
and the silence—it does not just sit; it drips.
The air is a heavy velvet, thick with the scent of unsaid things,
and the silence—it does not just sit; it drips.
It pulls at my feet like spilled ink from a broken quill,
dark, viscous, and staining the hem of my ghost.
Tasting it now, it has the flavor of a haunting solstice,
dark, viscous, and staining the hem of my ghost.
Tasting it now, it has the flavor of a haunting solstice,
of tarnished copper and cold rain.
A metallic tang of a rendezvous that never quite arrived,
to the destination of the tongue, with the nectar of forgotten.
Dripping from the eaves of a midnight quill of my weary,
to the destination of the tongue, with the nectar of forgotten.
Dripping from the eaves of a midnight quill of my weary,
echoing the raven at my door.
With a silence of my mind’s predator stroking the clock,
beneath its craven jaw, drowning my sanity.
Slipping into the cracks of the floorboards,
on the woo, with my Lenore.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Spectacular imagery and an incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.