VIII
"VIII ..."
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
the fragile halo broke into sharp pieces
of foolsgold, like shattered mirror glass
I scattered as breadcrumbs,
to feed the murder of crows;
I wrote a poem
on my way home,
my wings broken in a bent passage, clipped,
by the gaslight, reading too much into everything,
the feathers fell into the path of strange foraging creatures,
in their labyrinths, and within their tears like ocean pools, I scried
the essence of each one, found and lost,
their charms enchanted me, to no end,
in this removed place of the unexplored obscure;
from their laments, I wrote a poem.
I saw my jaded windows reflect amber fires,
lit high like funeral pyres, and from their reigning ash I built
new alters to warm the frozen void I felt within;
on my heart their tap dancing fingers like light progressed
the lessons forgotten - and amidst them all, a silent echo did imprint:
Love.
Eternal.
Strength.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
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