The Conjured
by Sarah Thomas
Flecks of time etch themselves in stone
like a scar on the heart.
Dried flowers wither to dust.
There are pennies in my sunken skull.
A second set of eyes.
Two smooth moons slip down my cheeks.
Metallic tears. The scent of blood.
A lost memory of you. I taste it.
Drink the deep wine of midnight.
A dark velvet sky shivers,
constellations of scuttling stars.
Inky black sea.
I feel its breath upon my rotten flesh.
Worms greedily enter thoughts
through the softened cavity.
But this time I won’t choke.
A tiny crack of light pierces the eternal shadow.
Guiding me to you.
Tremors of candlelight.
Little offerings upon the hearth.
Whisperings to wandering souls.
I claw up into this familiar wilderness.
We once lay down together in the sweet, spongy moss.
The same earth that now devours me.
Pressed between the hours of long, lonely night.
My restless heart still murmurs.
Still weeps in the box you buried within yourself.
I seep through the misty veil.
To the flame that burns on.
In the window where you wait for me.
like a scar on the heart.
Dried flowers wither to dust.
There are pennies in my sunken skull.
A second set of eyes.
Two smooth moons slip down my cheeks.
Metallic tears. The scent of blood.
A lost memory of you. I taste it.
Drink the deep wine of midnight.
A dark velvet sky shivers,
constellations of scuttling stars.
Inky black sea.
I feel its breath upon my rotten flesh.
Worms greedily enter thoughts
through the softened cavity.
But this time I won’t choke.
A tiny crack of light pierces the eternal shadow.
Guiding me to you.
Tremors of candlelight.
Little offerings upon the hearth.
Whisperings to wandering souls.
I claw up into this familiar wilderness.
We once lay down together in the sweet, spongy moss.
The same earth that now devours me.
Pressed between the hours of long, lonely night.
My restless heart still murmurs.
Still weeps in the box you buried within yourself.
I seep through the misty veil.
To the flame that burns on.
In the window where you wait for me.
Sarah Thomas lives in a suburb of Manchester, UK with her husband, son, and their black cat called Willow. She has been writing stories and poetry since the age of six and has a degree in English literature and creative writing from Salford University. Sarah has had her work published in The Haiku Journal, Sky Island Journal, Crow & Cross Keys, The Hooghly Review, and Flash Frog.