Savvy are the wicked,
watching and waiting
that moment where the atmosphere grows thick
and awareness between breaths intensifies.
In such a fog, only the essence of importance remains,
every hair stands on end-
a deadly blow is what’s to follow.
Enchanted becomes the light that does not pass go.
Stuck in a cloud like a light bulb,
intensity becomes the glory of daemons.
Angels sing the light to life,
guile keeps it tethered
in place for its purpose unveiling.
Keep your lights close and hold them dear,
box them up to keep them safe.
When the sky falls and angels cry,
daemons come to comfort the fallen.
Blades grow thick in fields of fearless anticipation.
If growth could speak, it would divulge
the wisdom of the universe.
In the dark, rocks grow where nobody’s looking.
Even the most lonely of crystals
becomes most cherished.
Lost heads look no more,
light slides on all sides.