Meaning Not Matter

 

The hall smelled dusty and old, not like leather bound books but of layers of dirt gathered over the years with path ways rats made to get here and there. Her black and white oxfords tied tightly around her feet, she moved through the corridor as if none of it existed but her. She wore fitted pants, that landed 3 inches above her ankle, the colour of a jungle floor that hasn't seen the sun since the trees began and a t-shirt, black, always dressed to fit in just in case someone catches a glimpse of layer of space that hardly a one and zero is no sum knows exists. The door way was wide open, she could hear the sound of a deep throated sleep and as she got closer, the aroma of disinfectant started piercing her nostrils, with a hint of North Indian curry in the air. The old Witch crow walked through the door way, grounded to terra but levitating just above, and there she was, her suit a pale beige, boring and nondescript, a cover for the skin of a dead woman on a short break of policy making to cull a disease. The short blond hair, coiffed in a style of curlers and fuss, cocked to the left, her neck loose in a dream state...In front of the woman, that seamed layers of skin sewn together to make a kin was on a desk, paper upon white papers with writing the meaning not matter.

The old Witch crow 

with silver at her tips did the whisper

in the ear of Ursini's cocked head

the name from deep in the sea

she did hear

a number it may be

down stream bear the child's cry

when thy close thee eyes

a dread to recall till the time

as heaven meets earth

a fold in space

time is 

now

The rain hit the ground with a soft pat pat pat as the air cooled around her, flowing faster and faster until it looked still.

Be still and listen

One day I will tell you a story