It Doesn’t Mean A Thing

She prays
to pull words from the ether,
to make worlds real.
She half-sings,
a low note of sacred light, deep in his throat.
She thinks of me.
She sits
at the henge.
She waits
for sun and shadow to align.
She thinks of me.
She tastes
cherry on his lips.
She memorizes
the sky, threatening
and welcoming
and consuming
and delirious.
She thinks of me.
She spills
blood in my name.
She creates
a machine of ideas,
a connection
of all things past
and yet to come,
a grinding of gears
that promise progress,
and seduce so easily
with hope.
She thinks of me.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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