April, Sixteenth.

she's warm and practices her sorcery deep in the concrete jungle

She pulses feelings on every beat,
not even my thoughts ponder this deep,
I often wonder why I ever thought
I could steer this wheel that never sleeps.

There is a primal howl that
for a lack of words—sounds mad,
she growls and shows teeth
but never carelessly attacks.

I treat it gentle and dress it laden
with trinkets of ritual and never faithless,
she pushes away those with no patience
because to her it’s gold and worth the waitlist.


It is no wonder why that late at night
she speaks in riddles when she writes,
she places kisses next to bruises
and uses darkness like it’s light.

Before the tunnel brightened just a little
she used to tick and stim and often tremble,
but her brutality inside her melodies
have never failed her honest simplicity.

Her candle—always burning even if it’s alone,
the voices of onyx murders find their home
and they caw and paint shadows for the crone,
and it’s like my heart never rests but
like me,

           they only bless those that wait patiently.