Black Magic

Frozen, fallen from that iceberg, he slipped into the cold blue river, entering the deep abyss of that mystery, was the never-ending road that leads to the black glory. He could hear the wolves howling out to the moon, there weren’t any witches around with their old brooms, it was just the old man watching and sitting, with his eyes ever up rolled. The match sticks were oil-slicked, their luster was marked with the sparks of past, and so were lost the silver lining moments, filled with the hollow dignity of that old man. That old road he followed from a long time, rusted and burned out that path led to nowhere, several voices in his head lead him to the days, days that were filled with the black magic of the woman. Shifting, riveting and adjusting he mended his ways finally, people called him a lunatic, but he only knew, knew that this highway leads him to the antidote, antidote erased his longingness towards that magical blackness.