… nothing else.

By J. K. McDowell

October 2012

 

The label read “ELIXIR” – in an all caps font.

The bottle was ink – blue-black – now those sweet worlds of

Night and Darkness, could be captured on parchment.

 

September, tell me, what is left to be crossed?

The trespass was unavoidable but bloodshed?

Darkness, I cannot claim the presentiments.

 

Are you still writing about darkness?  With a splash

Of malt vinegar and a sprinkle of sea salt

This twenty-one cent kale is the best salad ever.

 

Your autumn light is poor at hiding my darkness.

The South is still warm for a cloak.  Soft nightmares beacon,

Perhaps to borrow that old velvet mantle.

 

The impending balance of the equinox offers

Little comfort this year.  We confuse so much.

The charge, the spin, yet we can survive the darkness.

 

There is the sinking – your whole form embraced by the

Dim waters, then the current takes you into darkness.

Are you writing?  Living is an art like nothing else.

Advertisements