Where I go from where I am
is fate enough for Fortuna’s sake.
I'm presently vexed by a wych elm
that’s grown and grown and grown.
Seeds fallen from serated vines
find solace in dreams that
see cloven branches transformed
into the visage of ancient ladies.
With wings not grace.
No goddess or deity,
succubi that hunger,
feeding while I’m asleep.
Mayhap these seeds sown
with help from a spring breeze
infiltrate the ranks
of friends. My family.
And in a forest of golden strands
once bright, now brown, they'll
lay blinded inside a plumage of
twigs and cracked eggs of insecurity.
Only an arbalester's gaze
can find me an escape.
A victim of lovelorn history.
A cockatrices fabled treat.