Wordsmoker

The Wild Hunt

I have been a poet
starting a rhythem
long ago. It was a little past
three hundred creature-years
when I got going.

I could never write about love,
which was not exactly a rule.
I simply knew that
I had a problem starting fires
as a child.

They captivated me
and I lost myself;
hours would charm
idiosyncratic ways
to feel.

I tried to write about
the blazing phantom
limbs at night,
and I tried to write
about him.

Surfacing,
the Sun
would catch skirts
of flesh in surprise.

New ways to feel.

Its a pity,

Vampires always come
from everywhere, unsure
of me. I am on the
crossroad.

Recounting my name
in a wild hunt. How
am I feeling?

The words are
still glowing
left near
the beginning
always to catch them
from the wounds,
through the veins
into the heart
of the fire.