Those words sit

on my tongue

like lemon drops;

patina, diaphanous,

fireflies.

 

So soft and so light

that I reach for them

in the darkness

the only port

in my storm.

 

Here, horrors I would

rather ignore collide

into one another,

and crash against the

jagged edges of my fear.

 

Those words;

lambent, mollusk, petrichor.

A lighthouse shining

on the gothic steeples

of this ghost ship.

 

We’re being dragged away

from those sweet syllables,

to watery depths

by an anchor

made of death.