A quick puff of air
and it was gone.
Well — almost.
It wavered,
hesitant,
as if undecided
about complying
with the well-known laws
of physics.
Then it was gone.
And the darkness
it had held at bay
was upon me.
Deep.
Heavy.
It stank of defeat,
and yet
it had won.
It took the life of the candle,
snuffed it out —
and with that,
hope.
And yet
I could see.
Dazzling bright lights appeared —
not from without,
but from some inner source
I could not fathom.
They glared in my forehead
like mystical fire,
dancing and leaping,
all-consuming.
My outer vision destroyed.
My inner — overwhelming.
I stood
and watched,
waiting, I suppose,
for the light to go.
I had to.
There was nothing else to see
but these lights.
She whispered to me then.
Why had I stopped?
So quietly
I barely heard.
But my heart raced
at the warmth of it —
caressing my earlobes,
the little hairs
dancing in their own strange way.
She seemed excited,
even though the light had gone,
even though we were moving
in that mysterious old house
across the river.
Its dark secrets
whispered their own question.
Why don’t you
come further inside?