Wore it like a witch
tracing fingertips
along a silver belly.
Snake River.
Shivered twice
as onyx trailed behind,
once for me,
once for mine.
Pagan whispers bade,
inch closer,
further the ermine.

Drips of a soul
folded into the jagged
excrement of that bluff.
That blind chasm.
Widows peak, it seemed,
Drunk on the incline,
both vertigo-eyed
we delivered a hiss
to the ever-passing time.

Published by Jen Scholten

Jen remains curious and inspired by all ventures unfamiliar and unconventional. A transplant from Grand Rapids, Michigan, she continues her creative discovery in an artistically inclined community of dreamers. She functions with a background in photography and an insatiable desire to express her swirling thoughts through wordplay.

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