The call: he calls.
Tartarus enchants.
But not a person, nor a place.
A state.
Of matter? Of being?

Hard to say. But he calls.
I am certain Tartarus is a ‘he’
Though I’ve never met him.
How could I have?
I should like to.

But he seems intangible
As morning mist condensing
On the leaves of a willowy aspen
Ripe with the flaming fruits of autumn.
The strangest part is the call is not a sentence.

Nor prose, nor poetry.
It is a song.
Bittersweet music that drenches the heart
In a thick, black ink. Enough in volume
And enough in tumultuous rage to drown in

This ink, if you will, isn’t pitch dark either.
Bismol reflections. Pharmaceutical Effluvium.
Its sheen fluctuates in light
Collapses in on itself-
Committing innumerable, quiet suicides

Rank with medicinal flavour.
Memories of childhood cough syrup.
Thick and viscous.
It exhausts
Just to keep a head above the waves.