If on a winter’s night a traveler knocks upon your door
whoever walks this late among the shadows
is ghost, a headless apparition
someone who is no more than a distortion of light
at midnight in the garden of good and evil.
Can you hear the wood crackling when it burns?
it’s tortured by the song of witches,
for the newborn emerald snakes,
above the moon is battered,
its cries which flow from a crevice of lips similar to demons
lurking in the mossy glen,
I can’t describe the unbearable lightness of being
without addressing promiscuity,
I can hear an incubus frantically pacing outside the window
a nostalgic craving of rose sangria in Paris,
I dare not part the curtains
lest his eyes take in the shape of my collarbone soft
and subtle in the semi-darkness
now the dying flowers have blinded the clouds
before dropping the act, before delivering the last omen
would you still like me to open the door?
Photo credits: Jolygram
The book titles which I have chosen are in italics ❤️
Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads