Phantasmagoric
red gold,
last breath to bind them
or myself–I’m not sure; a shadow is a shadow
then so am I until I vanish
into the winter of the bears,
I ask that you do not find me;
I want to be played by tragic lutes,
the first scene like the half of bread
the last scene, the final act to the sip
of wine over the ashes of her eyes
the mother ossification of itself
stealing yet another life
from her eyes—
play the hero or the key
in a dancing syllable from the shore,
neither satiated or hungered
silhouetted in bliss.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Let’s look to our middles and see if we can build in dramatic turns, open a new window, pick a sonnet or a haiku, write in blank verse or pentameter, just show us your best turns.
