Sage

I burn sage because I like the way it smells

The demons I let stay because they’re good company

It gets easier and easier to call them back

takes less and less blood each time

they come to trace the scars that never quite healed over

and always with them comes the sound of distant waves

boats creaking against the dock

fear in the salt air like an electric charge

All this brought again before me

once more in a circle dripping black wax onto my chest

and this time I can almost make out what they’re saying

Nostalgia is a dangerous game to play.

Photo by Eva Elijas from Pexels

9 thoughts on “Sage”

  1. Something here but.
    Does poetry have no discipline?
    Why do you use and not use the puntuation you use?
    Being vague is not the same as being mysterious.
    What are you rying to make me feel?
    All I can feel is that vaguely you are trying to make me feel “something”.

    Like

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