On the first thistle of June
the devil sings his tune,
Lend me your ear
three deaths haunt the seer.
Wicked birds will fly
on their very first try
to gather children’s hearts
to flavor hell’s tarts.
Gold, raven, and ginger hair
you never know where
beaks will seal dreams
in the blood wax of screams.
Henny, penny, the seer counts to three.
The clock ticks what is and never will be.
Shadows coffin corners of the room
as feathery flutters ripple her womb.
Nightshade is braided to hang on a door
to steal breath, to settle a score.
For every when there’s a where
for every hate there’s a glare.
Sadly the seer is you and me
we pluck love with division and fertilize weeds.
If we keep venom from the tip of our tongues,
the bile song of evil will stop being sung.
So choose the music you sing well
to usher in peace or open the door wider to hell.
We are the world and we chart its course
and no terrain harsher than that of remorse.
©Susie Clevenger 2016