The occult

It rides on the wind, lurking in the dark corner of my hippocampus:
watching the cocoa cookie dough ferment in the sun,
my tore up dress drips it’s cotton fabric into the water, and
the momument standing in solitude embraces the peculier Feburary gloom.
Why not go back in time?

Then you start to tag me between those sheets:
my name, your name, their names, coalesced;
the extraneous, the eccentric, the exact, commingled;
obsolete tales, novel legends, timing lies, merged.
So I’ve heard, your chant, floating, drifting, disolving.

The bleeding scalple makes it impossible to fathom home:
brutal imaginations align before summer returns;
submissive servants bow when the master arrives;
you suffer and fall apart till desperation strikes; yet
I am too stucked to make out of the occult.