Thursday, January 09, 2014

The Shade

Wrapped in a begrimed man's overcoat,
a blind woman haunts the cemetery.

Shuffling, awkward in this carapace,
not daring lift her head to speak,
nor remember the shattered shape
of words, their colors or music,

her gaping sockets are shrouded with rags.
Unable even to gaze up at the hills for comfort,
nor to bridge the unfathomable distance
betwixt the verse of a cretin and a poet,

She traces the lineaments of each stone,
searching for a name she can't remember.

At night, she visits her eyes,
perched on a mausoleum shelf,
listening to the icy flow of her
hidden tears into goblin-cups.

In this world, such sorrows
are nameless, and homeless.
Too caustic. They might etch epics
onto the glass of a mirror-world.

Driven by shivering, her fingers reach
for one last match, which she grasps
carefully, not striking it. Darkness
covers her with its cimmerian cloak.

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