(Continues from Sharp Ruins)
I’m a moth drawn to a distant hearth fire.
Across a moor, it flickers casting shapes
both shadowed, unreal, leaving me afire
for the breath of life, freedom’s kiss–red tape–
what a bittersweet embrace, no divine
voice calls me hither, I twist on the vine.
But I digress. It happens when a story tantalizes me. I saw the fire burning through the mullioned windows and the divisions turned the blaze into a beckoning fractal. Pressing my face to the leaded glass, I looked for the story calling to me. Gnarled hands gripped knitting needles as he rocked and stitched. A multicolor scarf trailed on the floor, and it grew row by row. What interesting patterns appeared in the stitches. The more I looked, the more there was to see. Cables crossed between knits and purls forming diamonds and Xs. Had I found the tale to set me free?
When my incorporeality tried to pass through the walls, I was flung across the moor. I approached with caution a second time and circled the squat house. The place was a wattle and dab A-frame with a keep away scratched into each wall. Damn, I’d found a story, but old world witchery prevented me from engaging with it. I backed off ten paces, retiring to a stand of tall grass to think. I’d find a way in. It was only a matter of time.
For OctPoWRiMo, 31 poems in 31 days–all part of one story. Watch me do it.
All 31 prompts are pictured below.
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