red riding hoodMy poor feet cannot stop
bewitched, like in a fairytale, cursed:
they cannot stop, so I walk and walk and walk

as if my head is no longer in charge
as if my heart might burst from
beating and beating and beating

This golden hour: cresting the hill
breathing molten light and
air electric between twin storms

air so clear it crackles in my lungs
Was I sleeping too long?
Where am I?

A wolf’s dogging my footsteps,
I hear him, throaty and relentless
breathing and breathing and breathing

maybe I’ve wandered into another realm?
Even my shadow, once so faithful, has turned away
nothing is the same anymore.

Published by

Elaine Olund

I'm a writer, artist and designer who thinks way too much, and tries to see the beauty in the world.

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