Demon Season

The craters of your eyes doom me,
and I wander between worlds,
sunrise in my bones, sunset in my blood.

There is no grace in your reign, no fine regalia,
just shadow knitted between bleached bones.
With shuddering breath, I recite backward psalms
and pretend to understand the nature of nature.

In my questionable tomb, I decide whether it’s
day or night, whether you radiate warmth
or continue the cycle of cold-layering the sky.

Above ground, the crows know it’s demon season.
I watch them gather in trees and prepare themselves,
their eyes fine-tuned to catch the glitter of red
and the copper scent of fear I always leave behind.