wyrdwind

Scary Godmother

They say you become who

would have saved you as a child.

I don’t know if that’s true,

but there’s nowhere in this world

or the next I won’t find you.

Ignore my toothy teasing dear,

I’d kill God and the Devil both

just to keep you here.

For whatever it may be worth,

if allowed just one companion,

it’d be your chatter to which I work

Eden from ashes of kingdoms gone.

Please, don’t be frightened.

I’m the one who set the fire.

Basked pale beside embers delighted,

your fine eyes so much brighter.

Errant Domain

Plants signal others when damaged,

stress reeks on mammals by breath

and through sweat.

What gives off, I wonder,

when you haven’t met another yet?

Some silent extinction level event.

As a youth I had the strangest Thing

about the smell of gasoline, wafting

some crucial memory like reaching

for a sneeze. Sat at gas stations

focusing.

In old school DnD

when nearest to the end,

any player professed of faith

or not

may roll for God Call. Anyone,

anywhere listening. Probability,

ghost in the machine, witness

to a scream.

They say paradise turned Sahara

in one generation

because God couldn’t hear himself think.

Better the best breed of noisy,

so I’m gonna turn it all green.

Witness me.

Real Estate

You don’t remember

how long you’ve been on this road,

where you came from or must go.

A journey you’ve taken alone.

All you know

is nowhere to call home,

keep moving, not home.

Indigo hills cast silver glow

between this wilderness

and another,

always another. One foot

in front the other.

Numb as a front line soldier

for whom never ends the war.

Once upon an exposed nerve

no more.

The way is clear, but this night

a door,

awkward as a teenager braving

the first dance floor.

It’s out of place.

But so are you.

Alas, it’s unlocked, too.

Curious cat and a twilight stoop.

Inside, a series of rooms,

and room to room it grows,

piles and trinkets somehow

familiar echoes.

Storied clutter crime scene outline

of where a human goes.

But when you reach the resting place,

so strong, you know.

You know.

Somehow you’ve lived here,

someone spent their life tracing

maybe one sketchy finger at a time

trying to feel the hands holding them

and didn’t get close enough

until just now.

You feel every step ever taken

all at once.

Just now. A human

body is so heavy.

When whoever built the only

house you’ve ever seen capable

of containing a spirit so restless

as yours returns, will they know you?

Or will you have to move on?