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.
