Fizzle

Everything is not what it seems in the darker hours, a shadow taller, a sinister footstep, even a helicopter… crouching like an armored beetle, emitting odors of oil and exhaust a perfume of war, and for a brief second, I’m strangely sad, as I look up into a night sky, blanket of pierced velvet, thoughts of my wine half, honeydew and clover, lurking in my mind, caught, like a wraith in the corner of my eyes, but I drink a deeper drought of that vinegar, bitter half, shrinking from the dangerous lure of a seductive sentiment, and shuffle back into that dark hour, since even in the low time, the soul’s midnight, everything that is, is, and all that will be will be, and a flare lights up the hillside, chasing crazed shadows across the rockway, and burns out.