crooked trees planted from red stained seeds
November sunsets are under appreciated
they say we’re all snowflakes
ideas slither through
last week I was stuck
quiet wooded path dried leaves patter as they fall crunch under my steps
the wind pulls at me twisting me into new shapes forcing me to change ******* Participating in tonight’s prompt over at Dverse, for me, when I think of November, I think of change. Whether it’s seasonal or political, I always need to adapt to something!
It was a worst case scenario, setting sail as winter barreled towards the island. The braying of the gulls felt like an ominous warning. Unfortunately, the waves of undead sailors crawling onto the beach from the heavy cruiser half sunk off shore left me no other choice.
I sense the change in the air almost too late. I inhale the scent of frost, decaying leaves, a distant fire and realize the sun has almost set. I quietly slip out my back door, away from my new wife and our little baby. Once I’m out of view of the neat row of houses I race towards the woods. I run until my breath is ragged and the last rays of sunlight fade among the trees. I crouch, hunched over, waiting, waiting, until the pain comes. It shoots down my spine, every vertebrae flexing, and spreads out to every extremity. I feel my back press against a tree limb that moments ago was several feet above me. My hands clench, toes curl, and I scream and scream until the screams finally become howls. cloaked in the blue cold the full moon illuminates an unraveling
I want my words to be curls of smoke that linger a cold brush of icy fingers I want my words to be bones clinking in the night claws scratching for a fight I want my words to be a raven’s cry in the air a creak from an old stair I want my words to be the depths of oceans deep the shadows in your sleep I want my words to be the blood that boils the floods that roil the heat of flames unspoken shames shards of ice heavy price a mark the dark