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
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