White Screen

White screen, what will you now become?
Shall I lead you as you breathe
warm-ruby breath of past romance?
Or will cruel imps insist upon
another, silent scraping of the mind?

Will you dance a cradled waltz
through cherished dreams of yesterday?
Or will that two-faced sailor, memory,
tack headlong to the maw of casual misery?

Beware, that sleek and guileful
slayer of serenity:
he serves a cat-o'-nine-tails justice.

Can I avoid those anvil words?
Would they bruise your eager toes?
For I might travel down.
Down, deep enough for darkness;
dark enough for deepness.

Be still, white screen.
I might venture where shadows
silhouette the dead.
Where guilt rides, in triumph,
a paler horse than death.
Where schadenfreude-fuelled
bullyings of the conscience
ply their tiresome trade.
Too old to surprise;
too persistent to truly hurt.

No, there'll be no dancing;
not tonight.
So spread your snowy shawl
upon my peace,
and let me sleep.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 5/22/2017 12:10:00 AM
This poem expresses an interesting angle of the topic. For me, the end-stanza wraps up everything with a strong effect. A belated welcome to the Soup. I hope that you enjoy your time here.
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