Angels and Gargoyles embedded in the stone facade of the college glared at us as we approached the main building.  We leaned against the wall, blending into the brickwork. I had turned into an angel carved from stone.  My own blood would be shed in the war within.  Heartbeat pounding in ears.   A drum bursting outwards.

Yet again I dreamt I were a witch, flying by night beneath the gaze of a big, fat moon.  Darkness was our domain.  We marched through the gloom.  Leap across the puddles, over the clouds.  Disrupt the stillness. I converse with gossiping  ghosts.  I hear the testimony of my ancestors.  I keep in step with them as I watch their shadows slip through the shimmering air.  They plunge into the moss that covers their gravestones.  Until I could see them no more.


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One Response to “Creativity”

  1. Spellbound Says:

    Poetry, poem or both?


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