clawing through the trees
on a blood wind as my breath ceases.
Channels to my heart falter…
…stalk me with lies.
enduring deadly nights
in a quaking stillness rendered blight.
A life growing unsteady…
…it must be rectified.
dead hands break the surface
as despair urges me not to resist.
People think they know…
…they know not.
I break the spell again
and narrowly avert its deadly end.
One day it’ll return…
….and I’ll fight.
©August 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne
*Please join me tomorrow for a special two-day short story presentation!