Writing leads me, with a flashlight in hand,
on eerily deep descents.
Down rickety stairways and cold-draft corridors.

Writing leads me, with a flashlight in hand,
to the pits of my consciousness—
the bowels of my being where light doesn’t reach.

To cellars of discarded memories
where they languish on shelves collecting dust,
receding slowly into oblivion . . . .

to crypts where forgotten dreams lay to rot.

Writing leads me, with a flashlight in hand,
past crevices where obscure shadows conspire
and like to hide,

and on down to dungeons
where monsters,
like resilient prisoners,
refuse to die.

At times,
I can’t tell if writing is a gift
or a curse.