My new poem on Conceited Crusade!
Blindfolded bliss, she sees visions within
her sleek, dark, veil. It’s the science of
spells, to conjure up want.
Black skies beckon stars to burst
in their spot, and her eyes
follow him into crowds, far away,
watch him now, slowly turn,
slowly fan little flames,
at her nod, he’ll combust
burning hot, singing grass.
And she’ll bless the
cold moon, when she sees
him emerge, ghostly pale,
and sure-footed on that scorched,
broken, ground.
Tricia Sankey 