Feathers fall in the forest,

through the cracks of the early morning sun,

footprints buffered by waves that hit shore- they too fade,

for like seasons that flitter past the underbelly of a tomb, she weathers it all,

weighed down with armour, past the-

obscene feathers glistening with an acid curling of poisoned dreams

Those doors locked shut should never be opened,

the storms of sorrow that pull the corners,

like phantom strings of a ventriloquist’s muse,

marooned on the shipwreck of her youth,

it grows roots, flames that lick the skin of furnished walls,

Porcelain figures, shaken loose from oiled pages kept in shadows

For Hell is here.

Shrouded by grotesque wisps; eye sockets distorted; shattered,

don’t touch – don’t look,

through lantern flames she weaves through the deepest part of night,

whispering with strength beyond the raging of a tempest- ’follow me’,

and reflected beyond the seductive eyes of a devil- you do.

Copyright © 2019 by Kate W J White (All Rights Reserved)