Images

The night grows as I do,
old and still.
Darkness as a dam,
blocks my windowsill.
Small breezes trickle through,
to rustle and enhance the 'dance-of-light,
that reflects an image,
off a silvery-knife.
That ragged-edged knife,
in the shape of a spoon,
a disguise well made for one that's not used.
The turning and twisting of a branch through the mist,
is like an unbroken-heart pierced...with one kiss.
Emotions would do better,
to follow nature's way.
To die before the evening,
relive in time for day.

C 1977 James Harmon McQuilkin II

I wrote this piece just before the summer of '77, after my soul-mate broke my heart and strained my aching-soul to a place I never imagined could exist. At the end of that sleepless night, I decided not to take my own life. From then on writing, and the rest of the creative arts, became my outlet for expressionistic-healing.