Strange Footsteps

I’ve strayed from the path following strange footsteps that I felt I should recognize. As the fog fills the horizon my feet plant themselves into their template and I feel myself changing. My hurt turns to hate And the blood I’ve loosed from torn skin against thorns as thick as daggers tastes like love. I run it across my tongue and paint my face as the Moon tucks itself away behind oak sentinels. They’ve been waiting for this. Burgeoning and thriving. A blockade to test the monsters who come to hunt their own shadows. Trying to make sense of the shift. Why does the Sun feel like an exorcism? Why does laughter sound like warfare? Why- does destruction feel like dancing with God? -James Kelley 2019