Dissolution
Dissolution
She dwells in the pitch-dark attic
full of cobwebs and
dried autumn leaves,
in the half-open oval window, a
minute aperture quenching
her thoughts of passing,
her back badly swollen, slowly
leaning against the wall
feeling the throbbing pain
in nailing a fictitious comfort,
pinching her tiny fingers right
through the withering mural of Saint
Michael slaying a twin serpent, she
grasps her left-hand, while
chanting an inaudible
eloquence of tantrums, then
pulls out a golden ring
from her bruised finger, and gently
inserts among the gaps, among the
forsaken she stares, as the
pretentious etched door adjacent her
screeches, as if time freezes and
palpitation creeps through her veins,
when a temper in full absence of
calmness inches towards her, and from
the ashes of her self-inflicted
incarceration, she rushes out to
rendezvous with the advent of play, a
misleading image, a fallacy of her
vision or a miracle in progress,
hands to her an elusive indictment,
sparing her a moment to exhale again.
Copyright © Greg Jr Torres | Year Posted 2013
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