It's somewhere mysterious, unknown, marked by a sign trail, blood, musk, washed away by rain and dust. A secret place for people to gather, masked, feathered, the signs of their fathers on their forearms, necklaces made of teeth jangling while they pass their metal utensils of casting from one rust colored hand to another. Rust, dyed in blood, or canker.
I missed the vote again. Driving around in the dark, in the woods... It's enough to make a girl throw a pot of tea into the sea, or a C into a T.
I will have to vote early next time. In the day lit hours where candles don't burn to the time of swaying chanters ink letters tattooed in swirling beacons to the chained unknowing.
Feeling poetric today. Yep.