Succumbing to my darkness was as simple as lying down in a field of blackened daffodils.
Once soft butter petals coated with ash.
No more sweet smells of rebirth; instead, the scent of stinging smoke taints my sinuses, traveling
so far as to burn the back of my throat—like a sickness. I lay in sickness.
But I close my eyes and breathe, and breathe and breathe as if I’m chanting out mourning for the
perishing of yellow.
My back is flat on the mattress of black Narcissi and smoky lent lilies.
It’s a siren’s song of comfort, and it’s tantalizingly risky, as most comforts are.
Like lying down in the snow, all alone, on the verge of sleep, as the sun sets.
Yet there is no sun, the overcast hiding the apricity and warmth of life.
My eyelids are heavy, and they close, and I keep breathing shallow breaths.
Has the world changed too much?
This endless black meadow is so satisfying, like crawling into bed after a long day.
I come in and out of consciousness, even if I lay in a black daffodil field of virulence.
My skin prickles.
Could this eerie sensation be the sense of gaze or from the poison flowers tickling my skin?
Could it be my essence finally leaving my prison?
I want to sleep, but I have to look at who has finally reached out.
When was the last time someone looked and saw me?
I wonder so squinting with dazed eyes and tilting my head to gaze up,
I find an essence overlooking me, clad in dark robes, his hood over his secret eyes;
but in his skeleton hand, he holds a yellow daffodil.
My lips part as wind fills my cheeks.
The visitor throws the flower on my chest;
the yellow lands on my heart as the sun blossoms and blue skies wash away the gray, and without
warning, the specter leaves.
It’s not my time yet.
I sit up, holding myself by the palms of my hands, and hope again.
WILDsound Writing Festival 