Skulls
Black skull bag glitters
Neon-green in the night,
Offering dark a light
As you drift off to sleep.
Full moon hangs heavy,
A silver cascade
Lifting the ground upward
To meet the sky’s eyes.
Branches swing, creaking,
Played on by the wind
In a rhythmic chorus
Only audible by the air.
Creeping roots bore down
Deep into Mother Earth,
Shifting senses lower and lower,
To the heart of sound.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 6, 2020
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