The Devil’s Home

The sun lays September to rest,
my single tree quivers
against black canvas, frost steals my breath
and this night makes it hard to be a river.
My moon cannot gaze quick
enough in any direction, I stumble
over boulders, though these dormant feet stick,
one-side of heavy rubble.
Gentle, I offer, white whispers,
(and knuckles), as I lay my head to rest,
because, as he often does, the reaper
shreds nightly peace, to build a home in my chest!

18 thoughts on “The Devil’s Home

  1. I love your imagery. Count me in as a fan. I write under the blog Click on the apple with the red clothespin. I hope you enjoy my art and poetry. love always, Tom

  2. I love the line “and this night makes it hard to be a river.” There’s something brilliant about that line for me. I also write poetry, maybe someday I’ll post it on my blog. Thank you for writing. 🙂

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