In painted ink, with charcoal tones, I confess waiting for Charon.
The water too thick for the crossing, watching the gray rise. A
single, distant, sickly gas lamp stabs at the gloom, offering not
light, but a suggestion of form—a spectral boat, a weeping willow
on the far bank. The air smells of soot, gin, and secrets too heavy
to sink. A silhouette in a tailored coat, arranging the night into a
harmony of shadow and silence as the city holds its breath of a
woman in a velvet dress, a symphony of pale haunting memory
until the darkness is absolute, and the vodka stings my lips
with a chilled martini.
Rated for Everyone 
In Charcoal Tones
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Post / Chapter Author
Whew…you’ve shaped darkness into art, giving form to what would otherwise consume, turning shadow into something seen, held and endured. Beautiful. Deep.
Dark is…an aria of the mind.