Pagan
You’ve howled in approval. I’ve driven both forest and ocean through your channels. There was no hustle like their squeak of my rubber soles, running to you, to make you howl my approval.
Witches, wolves, and woods nymph. Propaganda, I say. No other sanctuary is as pure. Wet leaves whistle the wind when wild weirdos wax poetic.
I wane under the harsh scrutiny of oil lamps and blue lights. A marshmallow, dangling dangerously close to the heated hearth that you most assuredly are. I retreat to the warm frostbite of the thicket on the other end of that beckoning brick bridge.
I, self, lord, and master, submit to Mother’s milk during the witching hours.
Speak of me. Perhaps I will be found. Maybe I belong.
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