peverell from 5.17 by Joseph Ruddleston

you carry on as if the tune you hum
before bed is something you invented,
as if it wasn’t woven through your sinews
from the very start.

we could have gone the way
of fairy things, lost to the narrowing
of roads and the fade of the woods;
your blood tells the story, but you refuse
to hear it even when it sings to you
in the small, quiet places you prefer.

(is the creaking of stairs still so loud?)

there is a vault breaking open
under your skin, an inheritance
made ripe in the knowing of it.

don’t let us be whittled
to pinholes; don’t let us dim.
you never understood

(they called you a savior, once)

that we were dying long before
they made it look sweet. don’t
forget you were made with blood
and stardust, like us, with dragon
heartstring and harps in your head.

you were never one of them.

• Folk
• ambient
• freak folk
• indie
• Brooklyn