the folly

sumptuous feasts offered on tables of elm
whilst maple waves extract themselves
from window panes,
tis the season of magicks deep.

from the frosted edges hunts
the seven devils from paradise
crooning symphonies concocted
for her ears only.

inured against their trappings,
instead she plays them a song
borne upon the bloodied strings
of dawn and dusk and the last
of her resources.

she is human tonight,
the last thought before the hunted
becomes the hunter;
for the greatest demon
is not under the porchlight;
but her.

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