Shielded
by the dead of night

A
homestead is alight

With
neon-colored potions and plans

A
lone and crooked frame

Weaves
back and forth

Through
the nurturing silence

Where
his madness may grow

Into
an outburst of genius

Where
his cauldrons ignite

And
froth with his loathsome schemes

Until,
“the night has come”

Crawls
out of his throat

And
a dream, becomes a world set ablaze

A
triumph, left smoldering in his past

©William Wright, Jr.

Excerpt from the book Poetic Shadows

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