Fiend of Anathema
Mid April already, and the wild plums
start to bloom outside her window.
Entranced by the lines longing for
words to jump from her head.
Becoming perpetuated on the fibers,
yet her mind houses a sleeping giant.
From the rise and fall of his nostrils
come befuddling words forming messages.
In its home, a cave of grandeur;
foreboding catatonia for its presence.
A chance to be intertwined, gaining
the courage to be affixed.
Yet
the solitary creature slinks into the abyss.
A fellow of habit, darkness its desire,
a hunt that will never be won.
For this brutish beast flies solo!
Sweet blossoms lull her back to reality.
A sense of awe edges onto her face,
the whole parchment is covered
every single line.
-Shannon Beverley
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