becomes the spell
These are my eyes awake at midnight
smelling the muddy waters coursing down below
matters waxing sacred as put down to paper
fighting the night wind for my very next breath.
This town is a vagrant that stood its ground too long
every house illuminated with a haunting blue glow
electric eye candy radiating from nailed windows
onto empty streets – dark like caverns
beggarly, with the shadow of lurking violence.
The bile of hoodrat laughter echoes –
at every dark tormented turn
even the hustlers stay in the lamp light
waiting for felonmongers who never show
absent at their wearisome game.
This place is filled with angry Verucas
who cry for trees that are merely weeds
and wouldn’t fuddle from the same glass as me.
Eyes sunken and deaf from the cold wind
grasping desperately to my anguished,
hallowed text.
David Seaman is a literary author and poet. His work has been published by Slice Magazine, Foliate Oak Online Literary Magazine, Birmingham Arts Journal, Downstate Story, Bluffs Literary Magazine, and Absinthe Magazine. He is an English major at Illinois Central College.
