Feathered Secrets- Michael Erickson

Boots click and crunch upon crusted waves of freezing snow,

Echoing upon dying secrets of this now-empty street.

In the night pools of light shine out against the present cold,

Wind hisses through brooding gloom combating the inevitable dark.

I alone see who stalks upon this lonely highway, a figure of callused leather,

Cloak pulled round tight to obscure an otherwise significant face.

I alone know who this phantom is, eyes burning in the waiting tenebrosity of Winter,

Peering from my vantage point I spy his imposing form pause bending down to consider a frozen patch of earth.

With pitch gloved hands he rakes hardened fingers through frosted grass and speaks with a hoars tongue,

“Obumbratio abyssi.

Canem evocant.

Incipe cum venari.”

To my astonishment as well as pain in both my eyes a circle of blue flame envelops the spot where he stands,

They lick and dance upon the ground making not a mark or sound.

He stands aside, feet wreathed in fire, and motions up to the hidden sky,

Vibrations roll through the thickening fog and ruffle my stature so secure.

Terror has come upon my world through a gate once long forgotten,

Witness the unthinkable now seen.

I must flee before this terror comes, but dancing azure lures me and I stay,

To know thine enemy is key.

As a pit of obsidian opens wide beneath the dancing heat I smell doom now released,

On all fours, it pads out a silent glowing wraith with eyes of dying embers.

A cry rises in my breast shaking each hollow bone within,

And I know now is my time to flee.

Beast greets man as an old companion weather-beaten and worn from years of searching,

With eyes aglow, they stalk off into the now malevolent night.

A keening wail ululates from unearthly throat and tongue as it cuts through the crystalizing air,

It’s too much to bear, I must flee at once and warn my world of impending doom.

So spread wide silent wings I jump to my good deed and sweep off into the night so ignored,

For I am but an owl with eyes of tawny and coat of feathers that has just fled its tree.


Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.

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