The Magick Of You

*Written for my only love, Robert Brian Newbill*

The Magick Of You

Beyond the wands of wild
calla lilies, over the forest
scents of soundless pines,
the crows converge forming
a heavy brocade on the
surface tensions of clear
waters.

A still sketch, a splash of
light, a death mask of falling
rain where time joins memory
as liquid gushes over rocks
and moonlight settles into
empty sockets frantic for
air.

Insects color the auras of
half-eaten fish bleeding into
the drowning shadows of
natural instincts, the buzzing
language of words not spoken,
fall absent to skin decaying into
earth.

There are nights in the forest
of literature where I feel closest
to you, in the hours reserved
for whispers, the truth of your
soul does not fail to reveal
that some thunderstorms become
fire.

I reserve my love for those
quiet moments where you live
with me in toughts, where our
words are as powerless as our
love, where black soil
regenerates, uniting lost
spirits.