In the mists I’ve traveled,

I do not know for how long,

Riding my witch’s staff

Through the howling fog.

The currents clash chaotically

Onto the scepter,

And only with a steady eye

Can I adjust my bearings

And relay them

To the gold-clad beetle

Steering from the helm of my staff.

Carefully, with my posture unwavering

I unearth from my pocket

A dark egg.

Dark, but not dull, because,

Unlike the black heart, this ovaloid talisman hasn’t lost its luster:

Tiny currents of grays and whites puncture

Its otherwise obsidian surface,

Rays of hope

In this uncertain continuum.

But to truly determine its color,

I must find another contour.

I rotate the egg steadily, searching

For a narrow orifice at its aphelion,

The point outermost from the ellipsoid’s core.

With my free hand searching the surface,

I locate the slit

And I peer into its abyss.

Inside, I can faintly trace

A flicker of warmth

In the crevice of cold;

The beacon of light

In the midst of darkness,

The beacon that I strive to grow and nurture

With every passing into another world,

That I one day hope to unleash

Into a dimension of need,

Spreading out its warmth and saturation

To put the dimension’s inhabitants at ease,

To free them from their woes

Without need for conflict,

That, hopefully, in its release,

Will bring me peace.

But the passing slit is so narrow now,

And, if things worsen, it may eclipse,

Blocking out the last of the light—

By then, all hope will be lost for the egg.

Another promise I will not have kept,

Another moment to add to my sins.

*Article thumbnail by Melissa Santoyo / North by Northwestern