Fool;
Three hours past her bedtime.
Witches drawn to wee hours,
Like flies to shit.
Petrichor.
Plants seething moisture.
Rain.
Know it too well.
Felt it a thousand times.
Green skies to thunder,
Upon breakups.
Two Storms,
Four Storms.
Slavering For Thunderbirds.
Hungry For Abrahamic Prophets.
Food,
Not Faith.
Flesh,
No Fear.
Everything is something,
To other things.
Freedom.
Feast.
Festivals Of Fancy.
Frantic Feralities,
In Flight.
Old Crone.
Tucking herself into bed at midnight,
Rocked to sleep by a gentle rolling,
Of chicken feet below.
Thousand,
As millipedes,
Manse Crawling Woods.
Petrichor.
