In the apothecary of her mind
She seeks the ingredients to weave her magic
For an incantation that does not reside in any spell-book.
This must be hers, and hers alone.
Upon the dusty shelves she seeks them
Some, well-used, and almost worn away
Yet others, lurking near the back wall,
Still gleaming in their newness
Like precious gems thus far unset
Upon any mystic amulet.
As she finds them, she holds them,
With the tenderness of a would-be mother
In supplication to the goddess
To bring forth a child so rare
That the universe will marvel at the sight.
Then – with tears of pain,
Feeling the flames singe her flesh
She casts her jewels into the crucible.
Laboring through darkness,
Treading the razor edge between euphoria and fear
To bring about an alchemy so rare
That all creation will fall in awe before its magic.
Uttering her spell of longing to the skies,
Hope born of desperation catching in her throat,
Stirring with care the words upon the final page…
She whispers “The End,”
And closes the book.
Wendy Anne Darling 2015