There’s a wrong-ness in the air
that would neither settle
nor move along.
It brought vague questions
and cold sweats that tingle
my feet;
the sky is pale
and the dog is howling;
the wrong-ness,
artless and raw.
A waning moon showed.
It is now dark out.
Fangs in the sky
start to dance,
gnawing at my gut.
The hour on the clock
is wrong.
So was the color of my sweat
that I have just washed
down the drain.
The only thing right
is the certainty
that this wrongness exists.
But I must not come find
where it rests
for I have gone that way before.
And the only end
I would meet
on that path
is more wrongness.
Yet it rattles my bones,
like they’re wind chimes
out in an approaching storm.
A Wrong-ness in the Waning Moon
March 8, 2021
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