A Magazine of Many Arts

He sits in limbo

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â waiting for the next summoning

licking at the scars of being

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â forever left behind,

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â clawing at the hate

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of his intangible

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â but ever hungering form.

Until

in a flash

he is called.

As lightning he appears above

to race down through the beings below.

By twos and threes he consumes them

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â by his merest touch

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â by his slightest breath,

until he stands alone

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â even here

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â on this most fecund world.

With one more racing whirl

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â he is gone back home

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â once more in limbo,

where he piles the unburnable trinkets

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of those frail creatures

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â that whither in his presence.

He covets these reminders

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of those who can stand

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the touch of their own,

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of those who keep full company.

For even these remains

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of those damned & blessed beings

fuel the anger

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â he strives to keep,

for he must stay burning bright & hot

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to earn each quick release

Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â from his solitude.

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