kloiterra

imbolc marked the peak of winter and everyone was unimpressed, if they even noticed.
two days later, they complained that it was getting cold.
everything started slowing as the raging fires of january turned to glowing ash
and the ice on the river grew thick and deep,
all the creatures went to sleep.
Earth donned her makeup, all smooth and gray to white,
the horizon obscured; a negative of the sea at night
where the sky and water become one
and there is no difference between the stars above
and their reflection.
once again a tiny spiral; a repeater cycle
and all is silent in limbo, a satanic curse; every day is the same.
as a ghost is no way to live.
i haunt this house--creaky floorboards in the witching hour,
reaching for the living, but only the cat hears my voice.
i leave this house and sing until the car stops,
then work in silence amidst the clamor of industry
and constant streams of encoded syllables,
my tongue leaves me outside.
i leave this place and sing until the car stops,
then return to silence, back to haunting,
ghost work, a blind wandering,
searching for the borders of this land.