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.
2 thoughts on “Demon Season”
You have a serious talent for writing absolutely beautiful poetry, and I hope you know that.
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Ah, thank you! You’re very kind.