Dry ground and graveyards pale next to the sea’s
verge when uncanny malforms crawl forth each
night and roam. The same infected city’s
haze of lights that drown the stars cannot reach
into that dark, cannot dispel horrors
that have only ire toward our neon-fused
age and benign witcheries. The breakers
mark me as a false witch, how I’ve abused
my gifts for filthy lucre and coinage.
There is no grimoire for sale that’ll let us
command the tide. Coven’s pride. Ghasts that feed
on brine-caked bones know this. You can’t sage smudge
the sea, they guffaw. They name us hubris
and crawl from the surge at the scent of greed.