As The Old Crone Weaves Her Web By April Ridge

Those late nights that echo back,

they don’t give the same song

as was sung the night before.

I can’t recall the words anyway.

Lost upon a long-gone wind,

the lyrics, silver spun into the hems of

the being I’ve become

that has calmly moved on 

from the wasted nights,

the excruciatingly bright mornings

that pounded at the door so insistently,

although when I answered,

those thuds at the door forgot 

what they were asking for.

Youth spent and put away

on the shelf

for safekeeping

as the old crone

weaves her web

inside my chest,

hoping for prey.

April Ridge lives in the expansive hopes and dreams of melancholy rescue cats. She thrives on strong coffee, and lives for danger. In the midst of Indiana pines, she follows her heart out to the horizon of reality and hopes never to return to the misty sands of the nightmarish 9 to 5. April aspires to beat seasonal depression with a well-carved stick, and to one day experience the splendor of the Cucumber Magnolia tree in bloom.