warlock

lovely,
was the morning light,
the opportune time to be outside.

but the cauldron kept on percolating
and wishing for more ingredients.
satisfaction in the realm of this warlock’s brew
always seems to make happiness take a step aside.

snow was falling,
innocent and all. it may have been rain,
it’s hard to tell.
the fire burning here, alight with new timbers,
coals scorched blue with heat,
evaporating any notion of penetrating precipitation.

no matter,
for a soundtrack was in the carriage,
an aural cocoon that supposed the man
could benefit from a little metamorphosis,
what, with a visible cauldron
steeped in history engorging those around him.

it didn’t work. neither did the elixirs,
black, trapped like black, the opposite of what
reflections of that morning light might have been
in his eyes had he opened them
to the world around, where
walls stood firm, water ran freely and
love was waiting.

it became apparent, and perhaps not too soon,
that this cauldron would not be a appreciable
experiment forever.
oh yes, perhaps once in a while,
a little flare up wouldn’t hurt too much.
there would always be an eye or two lying near
for the additional punch.

but we should be warned.
the warlocks in all of us desire little more
than revenge,
and while sweet, they say,
it’s really a matter of taste buds.
I’d rather prefer to savour something delicate,
like the fruitful good ideas
the morning light might have lent
the ones waiting to be borrowed permanently
in an opportune time to be outside.