Great Expectations

great expectations anticipated in the poetic heart Havisham delivered all and more for love, a separate unseen thief, tore the others’ worlds apart webs like ectoplasm from underneath a rock scurrying swiftly out of sight wrapped tight around a child dressed in mummy’s ribbons kept for feeding later crocodile tears for aligators and the reclining recidivist for overdue unholy revision the written male read the inner heart entombed in stone home sarcophagus the heart milked black the fountain tip dripping blood, writes murders of crows boiling across a bardo blood red sky all for love Havisham delivered on a silver platter the delicacy of gilded poets’ hearts, indeed, great expectations anticipated behind antiquated veils flimsy from the start young and foolish brides dancing with shadows become accustomed to the losing to win, en garde, the loss of ego and pride revenge masks worn well behind sharpened smiles novices singing like larks eventually become ancient ghosts, the banshees gone the shadows fed some dark for light some light for dark the novices still standing stoic lit like a match holding the reigns of Baskerville Cerberus tallying others' minds walking in and out lit like a match, let he or she who is without sin, you know how it goes... cast the first stone; upon hearing a knock on the door the heart clubbed, opens the novice sagely green remains steadfast a flame that never ceases to burn out, a flame like a mast shining eternal St Elmos all the way across Styx expertly patient the unwed bride waits at the gate holding in one hand a flame the other a sign, it reads, "entry not for everyone Steppenwolf, only poets" who are missing - something - who jump in far far too early, yet, like the annoying White Rabbit are always to the party, very very late those ancient ghosts standing stoic behind sheer curtains of words, in their cryptic metaphoric worlds keenly watching the greater expectations knowing better deaths and births not lost, yet wise, haunting, otherworldly, Tipperary treasures darkly lit, unearthed paragons in guise Candide Diderot. ‘24 It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary, To the sweetest girl I know!