The Things and shadows, under the dead of night, lurking upon a dream.

Willows and Marigolds dance to the wisps of certain cause; something in the air.

Dread-foot falls under steely gables. Storms across the horizon gleam.

The feral land flees upon the poet’s lair.

Skies rumble upon knowing wonder. Like a banshee lost in its cage,

The lonely words of peace-longed dashed tucked away atop the manor spire.

And like the storm outside-the Restless rage.

Staring out into empty portraits and with wind-swept desire.

Scribbles of weaving fantasies lore.

The Restless come with fearless might.

Under the drench of ink and the stench of a pen’s petrichor.

The Restless come with calling thoughts of joy, less sorrow; this tonight.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash