Poetry

The space in between― 
the mayhem and spiritual hour; 
was not much, but a spitting image, 
of swapping with sun bites― was 
evident without remorse. 
 
The ice storm was raging. 
Blueberries hang from your 
eyes, to bluff me. I draw the curtain 
and lit the fire to bring in― 
the bride of vengeance. 
 
A charitable act, to clear 
the needles from the doll: No black 
magic will work now. I am clean 
and pure, will not cut a 
slice of breast, for the red milk.