Dreams come strange to me that night, asleep in my boyfriend's bed:
I kneel under a willow in the spirit-ridden glade.
The sky is a dark tapestry shot through with silver threads of star. Shivering, I clutch my jacket- red like scarlet blood- closer, leaning into the crook of a dying tree. The willow's branches float like serpents across the wind.
There is nowhere left to go. Nowhere left but here. All paths led to these crumbling stones, pointing like compasses to these decaying sepulchers.
To this twilight, hollow as bone.
The mad months run through my head, like the ghosts of dancing girls, bearing goblin fruits in procession to feasts below. Below, where water soaks past damp earth, through worm-teeth and sleeping bones. My blood seeps into the soil.
Samael smells it.
He stirs.
