Singles hewn from crowded thirds
Beneath Earth’s most deserted fir.
Urges so strong they hurt.
Loathing how quick what I’ve learned
To need purges my purse.
Wrote what I saw but knew not, then nor now,
What the ambulating herald’s appearance connoted,
The amulet at my breast, typically cold, grew momentarily molten.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment