darkness

the wind is restless around her body tonight.

the breeze kisses her face as the night begins its entrance.

the chill in the air nips at her exposed skin,

her breath catches sharply and she shivers.

her bare feet are grounded, rooted to the edge

of the precipice she is so easily balanced on.

her body sways in time to a melody that only she hears.

the setting sun casts a brilliant shadow play against her closed eyes

as it escapes the horizon.

the sky, now barren of warmth and light

envelopes her in a shroud of twilight.

she waits.

her darkness is coming.

she waits.

steady and strong is her stance.

her pulse quickens,

her heart beating a song that enchants her soul.

her spirit, singing an aria in response,

a call and answer harmony that bewitches,

binding a spell

in the night air that swirls around her.

the night air lifts and plays with her hair,

sending wisps of her black hair to tickle her cheeks.

the moment, her moment, approaches.

she waits.

feeling the darkness inside of her

ripen the intention of movement that has been awakened.

it lies deep in her being,

growing with a swiftness and surety

that brings a smile to her lips as her heart beats ever faster.

she is awakened.

she waits no longer.

lifting her face to the rising moon, her eyes open slowly,

drinking in the cold light that washes over her.

drawing her breath in slowly, fully,

her chest expands and her soul reaches upwards, exploding.

her wings unfurl and stretch with a rustling that is a symphony of beauty to her spirit.

she gazes steadfastly upward,

her wings beat down hard,

releasing her,

carrying her off of the ledge and into the void.

she soars,

into her darkness.

The Artist

I say that I’m not creative,

that I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.

I assure you, when you say I must be wrong,

that my hands hold no gifts of artistry.

No paintings or drawings spring forth from my fingertips.

A crudely scribbled stick person is the extent of my skill,

and even those, I don’t do very well at all to be honest.

 

But oh my, you should see the webs that I weave.

The beautiful mirages that I craft,

the masks that I sculpt – and wear with such conviction.

Wonders of illusion, they are creations to behold, I tell you.

So perfectly honed and presented

that there are times that even I am fooled

by what I see in the mirror, reflected back at me.