This letter concerns your long unused eyes:
Be warned—while still seeing, you may vanish—
quick as light slips past its closed door. Your sigh
can’t kill darkness. Read these words now. You can

think through them later, by lost, cool lamplight—
Watch the letters with concerned eyes. Don’t use
fingers on this page. Follow, strict, left to right,
quick. Light fades behind that door. Sigh and you’ll

miss them the way you miss slyly thrown balls—
think later, swing now. Then learn to light lamps
while you can make out shapes you’ve known. Night falls
fast, like fingers counting strict time. Write left

handed now, read with broken eyes. Cast looks
past words you’ll miss, like the lost balls you’ve thrown
at diamonds you’ve never seen. Your breathed books
are made into unknown shapes. At night, fall

into darkness head first. Take the amulets
you’re handed now. Broken eyes look downcast,
but raise them to light before they forget
diamonds. You only see old books. So breathe

but be warned. You’re seen but you will vanish
into darkness. Misplaced amulets break.
They can’t stab darkness. Read these words now. Wish
to raise light. All that you’ve forgotten before

will return. This letter concerns your eyes—
a warning. Don’t vanish with the unseen,
still quick, light. Slip through doors. Unlock your sighs.
Then kill darkness. Be well. See. Don’t forget.

– Mark J. Mitchell