THE GREAT HORNED OWL
the voices that
call out
to you
late at night
closing the doors
walking by
and moving corners
the creatures that
crawl past and disappear
we created them there
long before we found
each other
in the backyard
conjured them one by one
to play with
dancing naked
in the forest
down the hill
because it was natural
not the stale waste
of tomorrow
and we took our ghosts home
studied our magick
and found the wastelands
sliced and flowing
in the marshes
in the bogs
in the snapping of shadows
wispering
come forth
and turning around
envisioning immortality
at our finger tips
there was no fear
not in our secrets
not in the shapes
that we saw
and keep with us
that trance and leav
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