I
sit in flight, to pace for more, climbing a stairwell. Lamps
flicker,
where time stood still, gravely slaughtered. I cry
wings,
to drift abyss, soaring—cloud-born. Portraits are
speaking,
enchanting love-spells, panting to heirlooms.
I
freeze to watch, pitching tacks, painting carpet. Its
picturesque,
a sudden delusion, gnawing chaos. A woman
smiles,
as pensive as daydreams, ever alert. We’re afloat,
to
channel chi, girt with hours. She moves agaze, the hue
of
light, shredding notes. I cry, “Palatial eyes,” a step
towards
flame.
So
many rooms, to sight for ghosts, a wealth of locks.
I
stand in night, to grieve for less, to spin for motion. Such
is
music, a grand guitar, speckled with flowers. I’m more
to
wobble, a felt for tremors, gripping a banister; and so
for
rain, sorely gone, to pressure beads. What for love, a
pleasant
yoke, striking through night-glare? It’s less for
magic,
and heart for prayer, throbbing through light.
