On the way back from the abyss,
the dramatist starts and fits,
"Put me back in the black again,"
with squeezed fists and limp wrists.

The darling's staple diet of bad news,
black coffee and sweet candy
kept their spirit sickly.
Obviously.

Exposed to blaring overcast,
the dramatist retracts,
surprisingly intact.
In fact stronger than before
now in their validation.

Returned to comfy pit,
went the dramatist.
For the pit inhibits
in consistency.
No new delights,
or flights of fancy.
Not to be caught
between what's seen
with eyes shut,
or what they see.

The dramatist,
in the blackened emptiness,
will never know
when they've passed the horizon.