At Invisible Shadows

 

This idle pervert standing pensively
atop your grave, the threshold
of my captivity, in curled signature,
in chrome and lace
and every wet rivulet running in
rapture
from the source of your libidinous spring
to the sea,
overlooking the outstretched famine of
my unfulfilled ambition with
cast eyes
and a voracious appetite, my craving
in unfolding bulk,
my design culled from a craftsman's
calloused hands, an unclaimed
warranty of insatiable dreaming,
hooded but exposed
on public display,
this whistling breeze playing
me
like a forest god's whimsical wooden flute,
you'll find no immunity to magic

in the marrow of my bones, the
collected years of my decay, the
spittle forming at the edges,
born
a madman cursing at invisible shadows,
haunted screaming to no one
in particular, no one
in particular will listen
anyway,
you're there, in that empty corridor
between sunlight
and where ever you are, in
your unforgotten absence.

TA