What do you see
in a hall of mirrors
lining shadow rich furrows?
Are there
strawspun moons
glimmering its reflection
in pools of whispered turquoise?
Or do Russian firebirds
ignite the void
with comet-trails
to melt its spicy drizzle
down tormented tongues?
Can scrapbook memorabilia
pierce the smokedance
consuming Mona Lisa secrets,
buried long ago
in tea-stained china cups?
Could skywashed pastels
flurry its powdery panache
into your pithy chamber’s refuge?
And if so,
does its chalkdust spill forth,
ashimmer
in translucent, qabalistic baubles
to set its mélange of opulence
around a thorncrowned head?
How painful
are its martyrized lances,
drilling oxblood wormholes
through gilt rivulets,
to where mosaic echoes
haunt your orbit?
Would sweetlipped berceuses
comfort the noiseless shatter
raining beveled droplets
down your cloudblush,
weeping from the crystallization?
And when sunpoured dreamscapes
softstroke
their honeyed drape of feathers
across your adamant birdcage,
does the ataraxis
ripple its sedative
amid the pitch?
For near the mindedge,
where my spirit confronts
twisted Fate,
there lies,
in somnolent repose,
a shadowbird,
awaiting sibylline, proselytism
from the pools of whispered turquoise.
 
Copyright © aaronsadi, All Rights Reserved