The witch whirled around her golden cauldron,
Her shoes clacking on the stone floor as she
Chants in a language that's now forgotten;
Perhaps chanting to awake the ancients.
Her voice resonates in tune with the smoke,
As it rises in ever growing wisps
Like the clouds that shift to veil the moon’s face.
“Fumus! specula!” she cries as she stirs,
She’d lift the wooden spoon from the bubbling
Cauldron only to find that it’s melted.
Still, she'd flick through her potions book, searching
As her eyes would flash verdant as glow-worms.
Against the starry night sky—Constellations
In their own right against the cave’s night sky.
She’d cast madly in a fervor as bolts
Of lightning illuminate the night sky.
Knowing what’s good for them, the ravens scatter,
Their shadowy bodies blocking the moon.
Still, the witch would brew, throwing anything,
And everything into that dreaded void.
Outside, the cicadas would hum madly,
While the moon would drip silver in the brew.
Madness is found behind her vibrant eyes,
As she stoppers the potions into vials.
Lining her shelves with the odd colored vials,
She waits, hoping for someone to visit;
Waiting for someone to knock at her door.
And yet, after all this, no one will come,
So the witch sits drinking her tea, alone,
Watching as the ravens fly though the night
Preparing to brew another potion
That will never be shared.

Unravel the threads of fate,
Watching the clocks melt in your mind,
Filling the void we’ve left behind.

We’ll mark the earth like embers on wood,
Scorching the rings, year by year,
Only to have new rings bury us.

Listen as our brains collide, echoing with a sharp dissonance,
Shattering the one way mirrors to our egos,
Allowing three minds to run disparate.

They’ve told you evil flows through your veins,
But know you’re the priest God never payed.
They’ve paid you in a currency,
That you don’t know how to convert.

Forget the past and turn the clocks—
Watch the planets align in the palm of your hand
As somewhere a star dies in reverse.

Listen as the clock falls from the wall,
Tick, tock. Tick. Crash.
Smoke begins to pour from it in plumes
From the broken shards of time.
Memories obscuring fact as a fire consumes the calendars.

In front of you the smoke rises,
Condensing not into clouds,
But a new Galaxy,
Far, far away.

I
Begin by getting out the ***.
The bigger, the better.
But a standard one will do.

II
Next, bring out the grounds.
The darker they are, the more
Bitter they'll be, the more
Satisfying it'll feel when it's drunk.

III
Fill the *** with split tears to the brim.
Anymore and it'd overflow.

IV
Place the *** in the coffee maker,
Oven, or the microwave.
Whichever will boil fastest.

V
While the water is boiling
Place the honey on the counter.
The sugar was always too
Sweet for you.

VI
Once it's been properly steeped,
Let your hands hover cradled around
The ***. So that you may feel the heat,
But not be burnt.

VII
Once the water has cooled to 451 degrees
Write down the words you meant to say
Tear them and drop them into the ***.
If it doesn't smell like regret, you're doing something wrong.

VIII
Once you've scowled sufficiently,
Make sure to take a sip from the ***.
If it still tastes like it used to,
Pour in a cup of honey or salt.
Stir to dissolve.

VIIII
By now the water should taste
Of bittersweet regret.
Take out the biggest spoon you own
And collect a tablespoon of the
Lightest grounds, and eat them.

X
The lightest grounds will taste
Of laughter and of smiling.
They’ll taste of roses blooming in your chest
And of the sun kissing your skin in winter.
The darkest grounds will feel
Like thorns.

XI
However, you’ve had your fun
Now, it’s time to stir in the
Darkest grounds.
There’s no need to filter them,
After all, it’s only instant coffee.

XII
Pick up the *** in shaking hands and
Pour it all out into your preferred mug.
Frown at it and huff angrily as you watch
Plumes of smokes rising.
It smells just like he did.

XIII
Consider throwing the steaming mug at the wall.
Picture the shards mixing with the mess it’d make.
Imagine how it’d feel to hear the sickening crack
Of it shattering.
Consider it, but do not act.

XIV
Finally, you’re done.
You should feel proud of yourself.
Now, the best part, after all it’s like they say.
You’ve made your brew,
Now drink from it.

Time is slipping through my hands.
Like sand, it glides and grinds against my palms,
Seeping back into the beaches of the forgotten,
Where all our ashes lie, waiting to become wroughten sandcastle—
The Paper Towns of Architecture.

Our hearts beat, and throb, and pulse,
Straining to out tick the tick tocking of the clock on the wall.
I see armies of pendulums standing in rows,
Waiting for Rome to fall as the sun doesn’t set,
And the North Star doesn’t show, so the vikings can’t row.

The bell tower won’t stop rattling against your heart
Even though you swear it’s been noon for five minutes.
I checked my clock and calendar, and even star charts,
And I can tell you there are not enough hours in a day
The same way that there aren’t enough phases of the moon
Or stars in a constellations of nightly plumes.

I’d like to rewrite the constellations,
Play connect the dots with those golden specks in the sky.
I’d hold a solar flare in a jar, just to show you the fireflies,
Even when they can’t fly.

As death creeps in through the cracks in the doors
And time slips out of the locks like visitors of here and past,
I am sure of one thing and fact that will last:
Our time is running out, that is without a doubt.