Dress of My Imagination (A Poem)
Somewhere in the emptiness
of an cold room within yourself;
you confront your image:
the broken joke everyone can
ridicule with cruelty
but to you the joke is a sour fruit,
bitter to the taste.
Little by little
what is meaningless
is stripped away:
when the light box falls
apart, what’s left is shadows,
and the dead leaves of autumn.
In the barren cavern of truth
you are distilled into mercury.
A painting with no subject, a rocking horse
with no rider,
so you are….
Endless night of the spirit,
rotting wood!
A quiet, tuneless melody spins from your heart like
a thread,
weaving a black tafetta gown with crimson trims:
a metaphor.
