“Crooked Realm”

Under the water,

where sins go for slaughter,

it rains in reverse.

Machines spit out dreams,

stitched up at their spilling seams,

unsure about their new legs.

Wolves cry instead of howl,

constantly on the prowl,

looking for the source of their bleeding.

Fae wander the hills,

with hair as black as a raven’s quills,

struck blind by their own beauty.

A tower unmoving,

skin grooving,

collapsing in on itself.

All the kings horses and all the kings men,

weeping in a golden glen,

for they lost their king.