Night falls, 
dragging itself along 
with cracked nails, 
seeking out herbaceous
borders to smother their 
innocence and beauty. 

I attend her home 
to rest upon sweet sorrow. 
And from deep bloodless eyes 
I hide my keys in desperation, 
between opulent shades of 
circumstance and pillows
of scented pasts. 

I intoxicate her mind 
with the fragrance
of dissident, 
then lay my head 
on her unyielding folds 
of a debutante’s worn
smile, on which she 
struggles to survive. 

We play charades among 
broken mirrors 
and assume our 
caricatures, 
we fail to guess 
the others role 
yet still cast 
our tainted nets. 
Our antecedents 
are brushed aside 
and forgiven 
in exchange for
entanglement, followed 
by glassfuls of 
tepid wine. 

She accuses me 
with silence for 
all my false proclamations,
and I sue;
first for peace, 
and then mercy, 
and beg to be released 
from this devastating web. 

A spectre is seated 
near arms reach. 
I attempt to bargain 
with many silhouettes - 
as Hera raises her arms
aloft then lays down 
accusations to form 
a spiral stairway, 
leading me to panic 
and despair. 

To stir any comfort 
and rattle yet more ghosts 
who writhe on in moronic
glee upon walls painted
with misfortune from 
a hypocritical past. 
I renounce 
all my future thoughts 
in an attempt to lessen 
my sentence 
- to no avail. 

Condemned  
the executioners axe 
slowly descends and severs 
aggravated plumes 
of discontent, and we 
return to our opaque selves
once more, and lay still 
then lie convincingly. 

Quiet and still -
the prism fades, 
slowly escaping as 
the dark engulfs. 
I have extinguished 
the flame - 
emptied seas in an
effort to be free from 
this torrent which infests 
flesh and marrow, 
yet - until ash and dust 
forces separation,
I shall remain encased. 

At daybreak, she stirs, 
I thank her and 
she smiles back alluringly - 
then swallows me whole. 

I am free. 


(c) Mick Goodson