(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.

Find the earlier parts of this series here.

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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