i stretch my hands
in to the depths of the mirror
i know i know the tale,
in which you are dead.
i and i
became a tale
where a long stemmed flower grows.
One day one day
Ophelia... we may meet
for... you strummed out me,
a long stemmed tale
from where i drowned as a tale.
in to the depths of the mirror
i know i know the tale,
in which you are dead.
i and i
became a tale
where a long stemmed flower grows.
One day one day
Ophelia... we may meet
for... you strummed out me,
a long stemmed tale
from where i drowned as a tale.
Found your blog. Remembered a poem I wrote. Nomenclature is everything. :)
ReplyDeleteNarcissa
The mirror has two phases.
The last time I saw her, she had
Christine Daae-d and Miss Havishammed herself,
drowning in operas, stopping watches,
freezing time and storing winters in boxes.
Today, she removed the wail
and dawned an iridescent Feste,
motley in her description of men and manners.
The mirror has two phrases.
In the beginning, an iambic pentameter,
stressing and un-stressing
like a spasmodic gut-wrench,
stuck in Donne’s enjambment.
Now a warm haiku
Carefully measured triplets
Of cynicism.