Belonging

 

 

 

 

 

Rasputin’s breath is at the door

As death stares through the window  

The floor’s planks creak out the secrets

Telling of a stair’s plight in the mid of night

A shaman paces up to the watchtower

And the faces of the children turn dour

For the bell clanks out – there is no belonging

In this - the blood moon season of longing;

Run scion of the shade for the fulcrum slips

Tilting the kinder waters into raging seas

That sever saner floors into coursing pleas.