“So mote it be.”

Don’t call this Seasonal
Affective Disorder. Yes,
the climate is gloomy. Yes,
it’s grey as cold hell. But I am
not disorder, nor am I, any more,
any correlation between the two.

When the rain falls, I will rise
up against the grain of a world
descending; my breath a blustering
wind; my words a gathering storm;
my will, my intent, the echo of ages
& ancestors long since fallen, but climbing
the chords of this genetic, energetic Memory!

Look for me, if you will, in the clouds! This head
set high, this jaw defiant, this chin an athame. I will
not be your definition of limits; I will define those limits—
walking widdershins beneath this flesh, amid the standing stones
of this chest. I will draw a flaming pen in the defense of this menhir,
& what you call the “softer sand” of poet’s heart.

I will set these arcane eyes afire in the shrinking face of this dark world
& I will be
                                               found smiling.