By CL Bledsoe

There were demons in the trees waiting
to drop into our unguarded souls. Words
let them in and words could keep them out
if we would only listen. Some rode in
to our homes on the backs of black cats, squelched
beneath corks, or hidden in the silence
that follows too many questions. The greatest
of them was a fallen singer which reminded us
not to let ourselves be swayed by the rhythms
of the world. Others lorded over flies, putting
any corpse to envy. There were demons
for every sin, and sins for every thought,
all of us cowering in the lights, afraid
the shadows would reach into our hearts
and find themselves at home.

Stuff My Stupid Heart Likes by CL Bledsoe (co-author of and The Wild Word:

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