Crone

The other people we could be, or who we might have been. Anything is possible once the mind is opportune during the REM stage. But sometimes, identity is too set in its ways.

That night I slept;

Stumbled through halls past the

Crone with Medusa stare

Who had set wooden

Pan upon Pan on steps

And put

The baby by the cold hearth to

Warm

The me in that bleak house

Was appalled, my hair

Sibilant with indignant snakes,

Hissing, “You hold

The weight of it all”

I shook my head,

Rattled serpents asping,

And played the pipes, low

Drone, smooth notes to

Charm, circle in feet slipping

Over marbled floors

Whilst I fled

From face beguiling freeze;

The mirror shone

As I woke alone

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Author:

Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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