it’s gentle at first,
but already it’s haunted.
ghosts float in a medieval parade
and i long to join their dance
but it is too soon, they say
too soon.
following the paths of various pipers
i crave a more diabolical dancer,
one who carries a knife and
flattens his hair. but whiskey don’t
make lucky, and even the madonna
is crying when the rain washes
down the stained glass windows.
the hills get steeper, and louder,
there’s a real build.
the undergrowth makes cover
for the thief, so not everything
can be revealed,
some things must remain hidden
until the arrival of the may queen,
and the drums.
then a passer by asks me “is this
the way to heaven baby?”
cue the electric.
no matter the talisman i carry
it’s less of a caffeine high and
more of a midsommar mania.
the rocks sprout flowers
and the riverbeds flood, a cleansing.
the wonder of it all fills my eyes, as
words that cannot be spoken
must be wept.
things get a little… nonsensical
as the boats dock at the
quarantine island -
they're throwing a party for our souls!
it’s all strobe lights and amulets
and dancing like the world’s on fire,
because it is.
on the edge of everything
there is a sharpness, where
things are felt more keenly.
and that’s where we gather, watching
our island inch
to the edge
of the sharp, flat earth,
and finally
we find
our lady.
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