White Flames Smolder
An albino raven preaches
to an alabaster moon.
Darkness reaches from shadows
to grasp the throat.
Hideous cries from the upper branches
of the tall green spruce.
Ghosts from another time appear
as swirling mists in meadows.
Magpies joust upon the old roof
of the burial mausoleum.
Hooded ones chant to a lesser being
who fulfills twisted dreams.
Cherry blossoms scatter in the grip of
the heartless tempest.
The encrusted scabbard is empty as
white flames ignite.
Meteors strike the golden mountain;
as a stark truth is finally told.
Food was scarce in the old miner's day,
a pantry stores nothing but memories.
The water from the pump is a hazy shaded
red and tastes like rusted sulfur.
Cast a spell, send the superstition to hell,
as the white flames smolder.
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a published poet from New Hampshire, now residing in Oklahoma. He loves thunderstorms! His published work can be found in reviews, journals, magazines and anthologies throughout the web and in print venues. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prize Awards and the Best of the Net for 2016.