Dark Magick

 

In the still of the dark of the moon,
after the revelry has passed,
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep,
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed,
breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke,
breathe out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path,
take each other’s hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper,
thus casting an eternal spell.

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