You’d better be careful.
We take our black magic
And I could send
pages and pages
scratched and etched
and a cauldron of clocks
to prove it.

When did waking
grow so perilous?
Better to stay locked
singing sweet
in a jail of dream,
where only imagined
dangers can touch you.

He’s a beggar
for my blood.
Cresting a wave,
silvered and salty,
I bite my tongue
that he might have it,
and to keep myself
from whispering
the wrong word.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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