Book of Shadows.
My book of shadows are so dark. I can’t see anything in them anymore.
A shadow of my former self. Where even the darkness ceases to exist.
It’s from this place, this void of voids, that I’m expected to continue to enlist.
With magic, dark magic, black butterfly kisses.
Chained to walls with dismissive unions. Holocaust delusions.
Nasa, Politicians, The Pentagon, where’s the rest of the world even gone?
Book of Shadows and all that’s gone before.
Close the book, close the door.
Existence is perceptual, a hierarchy of numb, with tuned out silences and harsh whispers,
Atmospheric plunges and wishing I could miss her.
Too far, too long and too late.
Ding dong turn the hands of fate.
© G.P Williamson 2018