The tax return. The debts. The ledger.
The world is lost — I know.
Hidden so long.
Monster. Misfit. Mistake.
The skin worn to pass.
A pop. Random. Annoying.
A flinch. Was that for me?
Another. And another.
Not gunfire — a drumbeat.
Finding its rhythm.
The stranger on my right —
hiding too.
The same flinch,
the same borrowed skin.
The drum steadies.
She sheds it. Giant.
Funds in trillions, home to two small children.
Shed mine.
The wind picks up the beat.
The river answers, throwing light on the ceiling.
Six-petaled leaves sway —
six-fingered hands, waving us in.
Humanity needed earning — or so we thought.
Oh no —
the beat was always there.
The wind. The leaf. The river.
Nature called and we were already dancing.
We are loved.
Diaspora, invisible
until called to reveal.
Fear us. You should.
The cauldron is ready.
The monsters have found each other.
The world is lost.
Not this coven. Not yet.