Dark Ages

Old drawings in journals

about how one could live in a well

off of its water,

eating only divine mushrooms

that are reminiscent of witches

in that palpable sense

of the Dark Ages,

converted into taste

without the inherent synethesia of attribution,

but more just written thoughts

of poor ones locked in ancient stone towers

for some misconstrued

and therefore grievous offense

against God and King.

I had thoughts that I would save my own life

if I were some outcast woman

because as a male

I would rather die,

not being afforded

the svelte mystery of long and mottled dark robes

on horseback in the long night 

of pitch black forest,

brambles tugging 

as I galloped from forsaken Kingdom

to forsaken Kingdom,

no weapon

but a pittance of silver.  

Gallows are even,

counterbalanced even with trap door

and the worst part 

is that kicking paired with the slow filth

of rough hewn wood and unkempt rope.

I don't even think of such things anymore,

they are just there

like our prison system,

showing the world both that people don't know how to punish themselves,

that, or they don't do it enough

Raven feather

scrawling in old leather bound books

while old men bitch

when they should be proud of their scars and pain,

as though they were the sentencings of Heresy.

I will keep my Ulcer, my Crescent Scars

and forget them only when I pick Rosemary from the Earth,

I will not pray 

because it is better 

to wear a hood lined with fur while using old boots on crackled stone

on those cold outcast evenings

where it is all just about being Alive.