Apocalypses Reveal Judgment and Grace

She sits out in the backyard, among the fallen leaves and dead spots of dirt,

at the old and rusted patio table, smoking clove cigarettes, sipping Coca-Cola.

 

November, and she has her favorite, fluffy beanie, gold and black and white.

It has a sacred seal, and it brings her luck, and keeps the demon in the river.

 

The house is ramshackle, filled with too much junk, and not enough people.

Just her. She writes apocalypses in the dead of night, scribbled visions of grace.

 

The wooden fence against the forest keeps out Lucifer from her deep dreams.

The forest beyond is filled with Fae, who may or may not hurt her, this winter.

 

She finishes one cigarette, and lights another. It is cold, but inside closes inward.

She wants to stay out here all night, but words come, and come full of fear and fury.

 

The north star shines now, the only one in a velvet blue half-light sky above her.

It leads home. It leads to heaven. It can’t take the chill of the gust of wind on her neck.

 

 

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